


Seven Devils

by Nymora



Category: Elementary (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Darcy Lewis Smut Week, Darcy is the fandom bicycle and I love it, F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymora/pseuds/Nymora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories for the 2013 Darcy Lewis Smut Week Challenge on tumblr, where I had a lot of fun writing a different pairing for each day. See each chapter's summary for prompts, pairings, warnings, all that good stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lust (i just wanna be touched)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint/Darcy, "mile high club" and "sharing a bed". Slightly AU where Clint sort of takes over Ian's role in Thor 2 and is also temporarily on loan as a bodyguard/employee of Darcy's dad, who I borrowed along with her mother and anyone who recognizes where they came from gets all the high-fives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Pumpkin Soup" by Kate Nash.

They step inside the plane’s bedroom, and Clint immediately targets and solves the problem, because that’s his job. “Right. I’ll take the chair.”

His client, of course, disagrees, because if the insanity of the last nine hours has taught him anything, _being_ a problem (and a target) is Darcy Lewis’s job. “Oh my God, Barton, grow up,” she snaps, yanking off her hat with a crackle of static electricity and throwing it on the chair. The chunky pink knit is covered in filth and debris, but even if it was clean it would look ridiculously out of place on the modular cream leather, let alone the crisp white of the decorative throw pillow that coordinates perfectly with the bed’s starched linens.

There’s probably a metaphor or something in there, but Darcy’s parents don’t pay him to wax poetic, they pay him to do, well, all sorts of things. But right now it’s to get their daughter back home, despite the fact that England’s cancelled all commercial flights due to its very own alien invasion. Which he has done, and Edward and Vivian Lewis don’t need to know about how he helped Darcy set up the metal tripods that bent reality enough for Foster and Thor to obliterate Two-Face’s Goth cousin.

They _definitely_ don’t need to know about the car.

“Despite what my parents have apparently told you—and seriously, we’ll be discussing that, they know better—I’m an adult, and you’re an adult.” She’s taking off her scarf, and waves it in the general direction of his arm. “A _dumb_ adult who stands between people and shattering windows, but I’m willing to believe you’re a big boy.” She pauses, looks thoughtful. “Huh. I avoided innuendo and everything. Go me.”

Clint can’t help it, he snickers. Darcy might be crazy, and he definitely thinks she needs to work on this poor little rich girl thing, but she’s kind of like him. Except in the ways that matter, of course, but the girl knows how to crack a bad joke, especially at herself, which he can appreciate. “Nice, kid. As your reward, you can have the bed, all to yourself.”

“Clinton, are you trying to oppress me with your patriarchal norms?” She peels off her gloves, tosses them on the chair. Christ, at this rate, nobody will ever be able to use the thing again, it’ll be so filthy. “I’m feeling a sort of false benevolence from you, what with this whole giving me something I don’t even want and acting like I owe you my obedience as a result. Should I be reading into the subtextual domesticity of our environment?”

“You tried to kiss me,” Clint points out, and it’s not because he has no idea what the fuck she just said, or because this is the first time he’s seen her without fifteen layers of winter gear on since he got here. No, Clint knows by now that he’s got chronic foot-in-mouth disease, and it’s going to be an issue until he dies.

Darcy lifts her chin defiantly. “Yes, I did,” she declares, “and you missed one hell of a classic romantic moment. Which is exactly why this makes sense. You think you get two chances at being the Scarlett to my Rhett Butler? Hell no.” Her coat she tosses at him instead, and he winces as one of its buttons smacks against his bandage. “I shower, you phone; then you shower, I phone. Or is not calling Jane in your _orders_?”

“No, ma’am,” he replies, and Darcy walks out of the room, cursing under her breath. Huh. He wonders if anyone else knows just how well she speaks Farsi.

* * * * *

In his shoes, Captain America might have believed that he just happened to wake up entwined with Darcy, but Clint knows better. He’s always been a light sleeper, especially after a mission, so he remembers the moments he woke up from his doze to feel Darcy’s gaze upon him, the deliberate shifts that pressed her face into his neck and her nipples just along the top of his forearm.

Of course, Cap would probably also admit it if he’d done anything like pull her closer, or if he’d breathed in the freshly-washed smell of her hair, so it looks like Clint’s no hero twice over.

Despite his best efforts, though, he is a professional, so the third time or so that the weight of Darcy’s stare pulls him out of sleep he lets her know it, cracking open his eyes with every bit of bleary unattractiveness he can muster. “Shit,” he mutters, moving to extract himself.

Either she’s faster that she looks, or the sheet he got in their divvying of the bedclothes has it out for him, but they’re still locked together and fuck, she’s so warm. “Don’t,” she whispers, snuggling closer with a tiny, delicate sigh.

It’s exactly what he needs to pull back, to look down at Darcy’s cute, sleepy face and see beyond it. “Nice try,” he says, with none of the rough tones of exhaustion.

Immediately she scowls. It’s a nice change of pace from his usual experience with interrogations, so he rewards her with a smirk. Certainly he doesn’t do it because seeing Darcy try her hand at artifice is somehow horrible and wrong, even though he barely knows her.

“Right, time for the chair.” He tries to get up again. Jesus, she’s like a fucking barnacle or something. A warm, curvy barnacle who’s got him pinned with her eyes, or maybe it’s her lips. Which are parting. On words. “Okay, Barton, truth time,” she says. He catches the middle part and has time for a bolt of dread before she continues, “I’m really bad at being rescued, I don’t like cuddling and emotional stuff, like, at all, but I really, really want to have sex with you, because you’re awesome, and I’m awesome and, uh, so. Yeah.” When all he can do is stare at her, she adds, a touch defensively, “That’s all I got.”

Naturally, when he finds his voice, he says the worst possible thing. “Like hell you don’t cuddle, are you fucking kidding me? You’ve been doing it for the last few hours.” Her jaw drops and he starts the backpedal. “Uh, in your sleep.”

“You thought I—you were _awake_?”

“No. Uh. Mostly not. Kind of.”

“Even when I squished you with my—” She claps a hand over her mouth, slowly drags it down, and damn it if he isn’t watching the way her lips part just before she presses them back together. It’s almost as hot as the way her tits felt pressed against his chest, the hard little peaks of her nipples testing his self-control (and his dick, which, it turned out, worked just fine, in case he was wondering). He sees her remember the moment, sees the exact second when it all clicks, and desperation drives him to rationality because there’s no way he’s getting there on his own.

“My job,” he blurts, as her hands reach for the sheet wrapped around his waist, arms and elbows emerging from her blanket cocoon. “I can’t, uh, can’t mix work and my personal life, your parents will—”

“Remind me to tell you how my parents _really_ got together,” she says, digging her nails into the small of his back like she’s marking the spot for later. When she slides them up to lightly scratch at his sides it feels incredible, relief and tension all in one. “But only after we fuck.”

It’s temptation on top of temptation, Clint’s always been a sucker for a secret, and for pale skin that almost glows in the night. The blanket’s now pooled around Darcy’s hips, but there’s no way she can’t feel how hard he is right now, just like he can feel the subtle slide of her thighs against each other as she tries to soothe the ache. “I’m not—boyfriend material,” he manages to say as her fingers ghost up his back, scrape the sides of his neck with deliberate intent right up until the pads of her fingers brush against his collarbones.

“And I’m terrible at girlfriend stuff. So really, this is, like, a solidarity fuck or something,” she says cheerfully, inching even closer. “That the best you’ve got?”

Now she’s tracing whorls down his chest, and Clint dimly realizes that she hasn’t tried to grope his arms at all, which is… new. Weird, oddly disappointing, but also… nice? “Wait,” he says, and her hands go still on the inner edges of his hipbones, fingers tucked just inside the waistband of his boxers. “Your parents. Have probably fucked. In this bed, on these sheets.”

“Not bad,” she says after a lengthy pause, in which Clint does his ancestors proud by not thrusting his cock up into her palm (or, more likely, fills them with shame; in his experience, Bartons would have none of either). “So does that mean you wanna fuck in the bathroom, or what?”

“God damn it,” Clint says, and drags her against him. It definitely wasn’t a mistake to dodge her kiss in the street. The first time he kisses Darcy should be just like this: no build-up, just a frantic fight to see who can be the first to lick into the other person’s mouth, who can bite the other’s lower lip without breaking contact. Darcy curses again, and there’s no way she learned Farsi from a fucking computer program if she knows _that_ word.

“Go up,” Darcy growls into his mouth, or maybe it’s “get off,” but either way she yanks down his boxers and the sheet so fast he might need to check for rug burn in the morning. The way she tears away from his mouth to look down at him, biting her lip and grinning widely, makes up for it. “Hey there sexy, what’s your name?” she purrs, and Clint can’t help but laugh.

“I dunno,” he says, plucking at the hem of her tank top until it rides up her belly, exposing the underside of her tits. Sliding his hands along her sides, he rolls it the rest of the way up, and feels his IQ drop to some subterranean level. “Never thought about it,” he hears himself say as his fingers reach up to cup her (incredible, soft, gorgeous) tits.

“Bullshit,” she huffs, and look at that, they just happened to spill over even more into his hands, what a coincidence. He rubs his thumbs against her nipples, rolls them between two fingers until her voice spirals high and tight. “Not even once?”

“Not even once,” he assures her gravely as he starts to nibble his way down her neck. She’s trying to be quiet, he sees it in her bitten lips, the way her teeth clench, but Darcy’s no faker. Damn it, he’s so fucked. “What, like you named yours?”

“I swap out politicians’ names every election,” she quips, running her hand up and down his shaft with a thoughtful flick of her thumb against the tip. “Usually it’s easy to find two giant tits and one insufferable twat.”

“Christ, do you always talk this much?” he tries to say, only it ends on a strangled choke as she twists her body out of his grasp and shimmies down to cradle his cock between her breasts, gliding up and down. On the next sweep up she licks at him and Clint almost loses it right there, at the sight of her lips just barely stretched around the head. “Darce,” he groans, cradling her head, and she slides down the rest of the way so that half of his cock disappears into the warm, wet glove of her mouth. She hums once before pulling back with a wet pop, and Clint tries not to whine.

“That’s usually how you have to shut me up,” she says, matter-of-fact. “That work for you?”

“Eh, I’ve got a better idea,” he says, and rolls over to his other side.

Even with the considerable distraction of his tongue and fingers inside of her, Darcy’s combination of skill and enthusiasm is more than enough to bring him to the edge again and again. Not only is her mouth hot and stretched around his cock, her hands are everywhere, circling the base of his shaft, carefully testing how much or how little he likes having his balls touched (not a lot, but some), and for one memorable moment, gripping his hips so that she can more easily swallow him down to her throat. (“Fuck, that hurts,” she gasps, voice rough, when she surfaces, and he rewards her efforts with a long, leisurely swipe of his tongue.) She comes once, tart and sharp on his tongue, and wiggles away for a few minutes even as she continues to lavish attention on his cock. Finally, it’s his turn to pull back.

“Still looking for that bathroom?” he asks.

“I was thinking the floor, or a wall,” she replies, one hand tracking down her body to disappear into the shadow between her legs. It looks like shame doesn’t run too strong in the Lewis bloodline either, a fact for which Clint is so very, very thankful. She casts a longing look at the chair, still full of her discarded outerwear. “‘S too bad.”

“Eh,” Clint shrugs, getting to his feet, “I’m a problem solver.” The blanket is still close enough for him to scoop it and Darcy up in one go, and he barely feels the pull of the stitches in his arm as he deposits them both in the chair. Darcy yelps, but when he tries to pull the clothes out from beneath her she waves him to the corner of the room where she tucked her messenger bag. “Front pocket, on the left,” she instructs him as she carefully extracts her scarf and hat, flinging them onto the carpet.

The pocket is huge, but even when he’s sex-stupid and high on endorphins Clint’s able to differentiate between a packet of Haribo and a condom, let alone three sets of keys. By the time he rolls it on, Darcy’s ready to go, legs draped on either side of the chair’s arms, one hand flickering busily between her legs while the other plays with her nipples.

Did he mention how absolutely fucking hot it is that she’s so shameless?

“So fucking hot,” he assures her as he gets to his knees, resting his hands on her thighs. She lets out a hiss when he rubs his cock against her clit, making sure she’s still as wet as she was earlier before he slides forward. It takes a few moments of shifting around, but soon he’s inside her up to the hilt, and she’s hot and wet and telling him to go already with that gorgeous mouth of hers, and since he’s going straight to hell anyway he might as well oblige.

“Holy shit,” she says, eyes going wide, and in record time she’s going off again, pulsing around his cock as her hands press his so hard into her thighs that he knows she’ll have marks too. He’s going to have to remember this angle, because she feels impossibly tight around him, and she’s letting loose with the most obscene moans, and fuck it, he knows how tall the thing is now, he’s buying a couple for his apartment. Anything to keep her like this, open and wet for him, giving him everything he needs without the shit he can’t handle. When it’s his turn to come apart she doesn’t try to hold him through it, but instead rakes her nails down his forearms, a light touch that sends shivers down his spine even as it’s trying its best to escape his body.

“Well,” she says, once she catches her breath, “it’s always nice when the other person doesn’t care if you use a few dirty words. Thanks for that.”

Clint chuckles. “I’d thank you for a bit more but I’m pretty sure that makes me a pig.”

“Nah, you were a pig the second you tried to look down my shirt while we were saving the world,” she says comfortingly, aiming a gentle pat somewhere in the vicinity of his hand. “It’s all good.”

It turns out that Darcy meant it when she insisted they share the bed, and she also really doesn’t like cuddling, because once they get through the awkward post-sex clean-up and get back on the bed she’s nestled in her blanket cocoon again but with her back to him. “That was… well, awesome, Barton,” she says into the dark. “Good game.”

“You too, but I’m not high-fiving you,” he says, paying homage to some distant scrap of dignity. Settling back into his sheet, he adds, “And before you get too cocky about joining the mile high club on your dad’s plane, I really don’t think a private jet with a bed is in the spirit of the thing.”

“That’s okay,” she yawns, burrowing into the pillows (and it’s a good thing he doesn’t mind that she only left him one). “We can do it in the bathroom in the morning.”

It still doesn’t count, but Clint figures he can tell her that afterwards.


	2. gluttony (everything it seems i like)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (pre) Bucky/Darcy, "bodyswap" and "wet dream." Set sometime after Cap 2.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Self-touching during the bodyswap happens without 100% explicit consent; very brief references to past mental trauma & recurring nightmares; comfort eating.
> 
> High-fives to anyone who recognizes the source of Clint & Darcy’s call/response phrases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" by Rufus Wainwright.

The first thing Darcy does when she swaps bodies with Bucky Barnes is look down her pants.

This is a perfectly rational choice that she will defend to her grave. Though to be fair, she probably should have done it when Bucky wasn’t standing in front of her, tapping the toe of her favorite boots on the lab floor, arms folded across her (his) chest.

“You could have just looked at the arm. Or a fuckin’ mirror,” he snaps, and God, does she really turn that red when she blushes? No wonder she tries to never have any shame.

“They could have just, like, strapped on the arm, and mirrors can be rigged and stuff, you know,” she retorts, and holy handbags does it feel weird _to_ _feel weird_ when she’s talking like she usually does. Apparently Bucky’s mouth and tongue aren’t used to all that activity, though. At least his voice—well, hers, now—doesn’t sound too strange to her ears, because she needs to talk to someone about this situation. Preferably ten minutes ago.

“Besides,” she adds, looking around the lab for any remnants of the cardboard box that had detonated the second Bucky tried to hand it off to her, “don’t play like you aren’t rubbing your arms on my nipples, Barnes, I see what you did there.”

Bucky flings out his arms like they’re on fire but it’s too late, the damage is done. “Not like I could feel anything past your bra,” he mutters. “The hell is it made out of, vibranium?”

“Adamantium-cotton alloy,” she says sweetly, plucking a scrap of cardboard from the top of the table. The metal arm is heavy, feels familiar yet alien, but it’s still _fast_ , and her muscles feel like coils of energy waiting to be expended. Bucky always looks so still; how the hell does he do it? she wonders, giving him the side-eye. “Just try going without it, you’ll regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, that’s an invitation to the world of big boobs and chronic back aches, Specialist.” She waves the cardboard in front of his face. “Wanna keep talking about my tits, or are we going to take this to a scientist who might be able to, I dunno, get us back in our bodies before your next shoot-’em-up?”

 _So that’s the way to get a hot assassin to listen to what you say_ , Darcy thinks despondently as Bucky all but teleports her body out the door. _Threaten his job with your fail. How wonderful._

* * * * *

“Cupcakes,” says Clint when he walks into the room, where Darcy’s hooked up to all sorts of sensors. It’s too depressing in here to even check out the rest of Bucky’s goods, which are so conveniently displayed in the thin cloth hospital gown. Seeing her favorite archer helps, though.

“So sweet and tasty,” she replies, and Clint’s shoulders relax. “Dude, it’s totally me, I promise. You don’t even know the stuff they asked me in the lab.”

“Don’t be too hasty. I probably do,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. Truly, however did she cope with life before taking up residence in Tony Stark’s House for Orphaned Spooks and Superheroes? ( _Not very well_ , a treacherous voice whispers, but Darcy tells it to shut up. It’s been a hell of a day and they still want to draw more blood. Fun fact: her trypanophobia most definitely came along for the ride.)

“So are you my conjugal visit?” she leers instead, but Bucky’s eyebrows aren’t as flexible as hers. Not to mention that while Clint usually looks amused when she does this, right now he just looks uncomfortable. She sighs. “And now I can’t even do innuendo. That’s it, no reason for living exists, leave me to my misery.”

“Aw, Darce, don’t say that,” he says, and after a moment’s hesitation he hops up on the cot next to her, pulling her against his side. Bucky’s taller than Clint but she makes it work, resting her head on his shoulder as she blinks back tears. “Everyone’s doing their best to get this sorted out. It just takes time.”

“You sure Natasha can’t just hit me really hard in the head?” she asks plaintively, and he slugs her in the arm. Watching him flap his hand around, cursing inventively, makes her feel at least a little bit better, for a lab assistant stuck in the body of the sexy old-timer she’s been nursing an idiotic crush on. There is no _way_ he’s taking her to the sock hop after this, it’d be just way too awkward.

“I don’t know, it might be fun,” says a sultry female voice from the doorway, and huh, look at that, something about Bucky’s body knows just who that is if the way all of her skin seems to prickle at once is any indication. It could be lust; it also feels a lot like fear, though, and suddenly Darcy understands a whole lot better why Natasha’s with Clint and Bucky goes out on so many missions alone or with Steve. “How are you feeling?”

“Weird,” Darcy says frankly, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear and coming up way short. Natasha and Clint exchange a glance, and she just knows this is going in the medical file, which won’t stop the doctors and scientists from asking her about it. Repeatedly. “Do I have to stay here overnight? I feel fine.” She pauses. “Actually, I feel hella awesome. Doesn’t even hurt where they drew blood.”

“James has to stay,” Natasha informs her. “He’s not adjusting well to his new physical condition. Didn’t you say you ran every day?”

“Stop that,” Clint says when Darcy squirms in her seat. “It’s… it looks so _wrong_.”

“Bite me.” She looks back at Natasha, abashed. “I do run every day. From the lab, to the kitchen, and back. A few times. Jane usually needs food badly.”

“When this is over, you will run with me,” Natasha says, and Darcy whimpers.

* * * * *

She stays overnight out of solidarity, which backfires spectacularly. When she gets out and goes home Darcy is thoroughly in moping mode.

It only gets worse when her first favorite coping mechanism, a pint of triple chocolate gelato, tastes over-sweet and cloying to her tongue. It’s a good thing the raspberry chip is acceptable to Barnes’s elitist palate, or else she might have had to shoot something.

Darcy is not allowed to shoot things. It’s a house rule.

Cartoons help, too, and that’s how Bucky finds her, one hand buried in a bag of chips while the other flashes the remote between Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon, which she will never just call Nick. “Christ, look at you,” he says, curling his (her) lip. Somehow he managed to find the two pieces of black clothing in her entire wardrobe, a tank top and slacks, and paired them with a button-up shirt that makes her look like a yuppie. Even worse, he’s got her curls tied back in a low bun.

“Aw, did Natasha help you with your hair?” she replies, sugar-sharp, talking around her mouthful of Doritos just to spite him. “Don’t worry, I left you the Cheez-Its, wouldn’t want to deprive you or anything.”

“Funny thing about the serum,” he says, “makes it hard to throw up. Though if you keep stuffin’ your face with that synthetic crap you just might make it happen.”

“This where you try to tell me you ate real food back in your day, and never mind the shoddy regulations and lack of variety?” Sulkily, Darcy shoves aside the bag, or at least tries to; instead she crunches it into the couch cushion, the latest casualty in today’s “doesn’t know her own strength” marathon.

“I didn’t come here to argue, damn it.”

“Well, you could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

“I hate this,” he says, and it sounds so honest, so unlike Bucky, who says things that never really mean what they should, that she actually turns to look at him. “Not because it’s you, and not because you’re me, but because I don’t know what’s going on and I can’t stop it.” He lets out his breath slowly, and she tries not to notice how the buttons on her shirt strain; no wonder she stuffed it in the back of her closet. “I really hate losing control.”

“Well,” she tries, because Darcy never says the things she should, even if she really means them, “if it’s any consolation, I’m not due for my period until another two weeks.” She pauses, considers. “Actually, if you just start a new birth control pack instead of taking the pink pills, you can skip it entirely. The next one’ll be worse but I don’t mind.”

Bucky stares at her like she’s an idiot, so she retorts, “What? Sorry, I thought you might like to anticipate when you might start bleeding from your—”

“Thanks,” he grits out, and since fair is fair, she stops talking before she introduces him to yet another pop culture euphemism for lady-parts (like, well, “lady-parts”).

They’re silent for a while, watching classic Looney Tunes switch into Dora the Explorer and back, until Darcy gets tired of the game and turns it off. Being lazy just isn’t as fun when both your body and the grumpy assassin living in your body are shooting you subliminal messages to _move_.

“Can you help me work out?” she hears herself say, and doesn’t need to see Bucky’s surprise move across her stupid guile-free face to quickly add, “I feel like I need to but I’m not sure what you usually do and so. Um.”

“I usually work with Steve,” he says after a pause. “Want me to get him?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” she sighs gratefully, and realizes she sounds almost like the real Bucky for the first time yet.

* * * * *

Between the medical tests and the vicious cycles of laziness mixed with the most intense workouts of her _life_ , and oh yeah, the general stress of being stuck inside Bucky Barnes’s body with no solution in sight, Darcy’s both fallen sound asleep every night and started to settle into a rhythm as the days pass. The two paths converge at last when she wakes up one morning, looks down, and sees a tented sheet before her.

“Well,” she says aloud, “isn’t that charming.”

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Darcy is a grown-up, and past boyfriend experience assures her that she does not want to use the bathroom when her cock is giving her a standing ovation. With a moment of sadness for adding yet another entry to the List of Weird Shit That Makes Future Dating of Bucky Impossible, she takes the matter in hand, so to speak, and gets to work.

It takes her a while to get started, to figure out what just feels good and what feels _amazing_. Nothing seems to really feel bad, or uncomfortable, and after a moment of extreme moral crisis Darcy decides to treat this as a further learning opportunity. With a prime specimen like this, what else is she supposed to do?

In the end, though, it’s over pretty quickly, build-up and come-down alike, and Darcy decides to chalk that up to her obviously superior technique and _not_ to the way she imagined her real hand wrapping around Bucky’s cock just before she came. That bit of mental gymnastics works right up until she catches a glimpse of Bucky’s face, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, in the bathroom mirror. “God damn it,” she growls, and stomps off to the shower.

There, while she’s puzzling through the odd mix of guilt and pragmatism, Darcy wonders if he’ll have to do the same thing. When she informs him over breakfast that “if he needs it, her Rabbit’s in the briefcase beneath the bed, and so is her pocket vibe,” and he blushes up to his ears, she suspects he already has, which makes her feel a little bit better (but still kind of skeezy).

* * * * *

“Hey, look at you,” Darcy pants as she goes at the punching bag again, 20 reps as per Steve’s orders. They’d had to give up sparring yesterday when Steve forgot she wasn’t really Bucky and threw a punch that Darcy wasn’t equipped to dodge. He was still hiding (and apologizing, via text). “I do believe I’m a bad influence.”

“Shut up,” Bucky sulks, draped across two medicine balls and chewing moodily on a Pop Tart. “Foster warned me, y’know, but I didn’t believe her.”

“Too bad.” She doles out another punch. So this is what endorphins feel like, all happy and fizzy, like she wants to dance and zone out all at once. It amazes her every time. “She’s kind of, like, a super-genius.”

“You almost look and act like me, until you, like, say ‘like,’” he deadpans, viciously tearing at the Tart with his teeth and leaving bits of chocolate and marshmallow at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey, you almost sounded like me and not like a grumpy old man. Nice work, Barnes.”

“I feel like an old man to you, Lewis?” It’s hard to tell past the graham cracker crust, but Barnes actually sounds kind of curious.

“Let’s be real, Barnes, I probably feel older than you do.” With a one-two shot she finishes her task and takes a breather, not that she really needs one. Bucky does get pretty sweaty, though, which she hates, so she drapes the towel around her neck and gives herself a quick but thorough rub-down.

“Not older, just… different.” He pauses again, nibbling thoughtfully on the corner of a Pop Tart. “I think this is what I felt like when I was… when I was just me. Before Zola, and the Room.”

The names are vaguely familiar; she’s heard them in passing. They’re probably all over his file, but unlike some people (Clint), Darcy knows better than to snoop in the files of people you live with. That just seems like a recipe for disaster, especially when you don’t have an actual god-given paranoia to soothe. “You feel like me, but… better,” she offers quietly, looking down at the now-wet towel. “Like I wish I could feel sometimes. Also, I could get used to not needing as much sleep, I get _so_ much more TV in this way.”

It’s meant to deflect, but Bucky just smiles quietly, a soft expression that makes Darcy look unfamiliar to herself. “Enjoy it while you can, dollface. When I get back in there I’m watching so much porn, even Stark’s gonna feel dirty.”

“Well, if you want to do _that_ you can borrow my laptop,” she says, and yep, there go the ears again.

* * * * *

She’s Bucky, but she’s also Darcy again, right down to the way her boobs make her shoulders slump forward and the sticky itch of long hair against her cheek. She’s sweating, of course, because she’s got one hand skimming lightly over her skin and one buried between her legs, except one of them shines with wet and metal and the sight of it makes her shiver.

In the easy blur of dreams it’s so easy to go from touching to more, so that now she’s watching Bucky kneel between her legs even as she runs her hand over her cock from base to tip, feeling it pulse in her palm. Then she’s working her way inside and he feels so _good_ , stretching her full. It feels even better when he starts to move, waves of pleasure that roll from her center until even her toes are tingling, so much that she has to dig them into the bed to keep them from curling up.

She wakes to a sticky-hot pulse of come against her stomach, upon his sheets, and lets out a curse that once again, makes her feel like Bucky is right here even as the room spins around her. But she’s all alone, in a body that will never be hers in any way, and she will never, ever tell anyone the ways that it was hers because he’d never forgive them for knowing.

But since she knows he’ll never forgive her anyway, she basks in the afterglow for a little while longer, until it tips her back into sleep.

* * * * *

“I’ve been looking for you _everywhere_ ,” Bucky huffs, and Darcy slowly extracts her hand from the freezer and the spoon from her mouth. “You gotta come to the lab with me.”

She’d like to think it’s the butter pecan ice cream she just ate straight from the carton, but to be honest, Darcy knows it’s last night’s dream that has her staring at Bucky like a dumb cow. “Huh?”

Bucky tosses his head impatiently, brown waves flying around. “There’s been a breakthrough. We might have a shot at beating this thing, Lewis. Now come on.”

He grabs her metal arm and pulls, and she follows along. The arm isn’t supposed to feel heat, she knows, but every fingerprint leaves a scorching mark.

* * * * *

She’s going to miss Bucky’s superpowers, Darcy thinks wistfully, just before the universe proves her wrong in the form of Steve Rogers asking her unenhanced counterpart, in a whisper that might as well be a scream, “Do they think she’ll have any effects from the nightmares?”

“Nightmares?”

Bucky flushes. “Don’t make me wave my IV in your face, Lewis.”

“No, you don’t get to deflect this one.” She looks over at Steve. “He’s had nightmares? As me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“None of your business,” Bucky retorts, as Steve glances nervously at the two of them on their side-by-side hospital beds.

“Was it—” She swallows hard. “Was it ones you already had, or were they new? Did this fuck with your brain even more?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bucky snarls, and he whirls toward the doorway to shout, “Can we get this started?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking down at her hands. Here she’d been thinking about how cool it was to bench-press a couch while Bucky was being driven to misery. Tears sting her eyes, but she blinks them away.

“Darcy,” Steve starts, but she waves him off.

“Go ahead and get us started,” she says, and right there, that’s the Bucky voice she’d been missing, stoic and resigned. It’s too bad she only just found it, then maybe they could have sent her on missions after all, she thinks as the scientists come in to knock them both out.

* * * * *

When Darcy wakes up in her own body, for a few awful moments it feels like being stuck in a low-energy, more miserable version of herself; then she grabs her boobs, and all is well.

A low, rusty-sounding laugh issues from the bed next to her, and things look up just a little bit more.

“You all there, Barnes?” she asks, lifting up on her elbows to look over at Bucky. Apparently he managed to sneak in a few workouts of his own because her arms feel kinda ripped, for her at least.

“I smell like fuckin’ Cheetos, Lewis,” he says, shaking his hair out of his eyes. When she’d seen the shampoo in his shower, she’d picked up something a little more high-end for them to use, that didn’t smell like industrial soap. She wonders if he’ll still use it. “Cheetos and chocolate syrup.”

“If you don’t call me Darcy after all of this I will end you,” she says, and he laughs again, the sound booming through the room. “I’m serious, I know all of your ticklish spots by now.”

“That so?” he murmurs, and yep, there it is, the part of her that goes for tall, dark and mysterious goes _ding-ding-ding-ding-ding_ , all bells and whistles and stuff. It’s a pretty substantial part, which is to say, everything. “Maybe I know yours too.”

“I don’t have any,” she sniffs, tossing back her hair. God, it feels good to have the weight of her very own hair dragging on her scalp, to look down at her nails and see bright polish (was that Natasha, she wonders, or..?).

“Really?” he drawls. “Not even your feet?”

“Don’t tell Clint,” she begs, “I was wearing two pairs of socks when he tried and I still almost kicked him,” and now he’s laughing so hard his arm is cradling his stomach. Or maybe the Cheeto dust is getting to him, hell, Darcy doesn’t know, isn’t he supposed to act like she’s not there or something?

“You’re all right, Darcy,” he says when he’s done, and while Darcy sticks her tongue out at him she gets the feeling he knows what she means by it, even before she softens it with a smile.

“Back atcha, Barnes.”

“Call me Bucky,” he says after a pause, and while they’ve still got a long way to go, it’s a lot more than she ever thought possible.


	3. greed (take what you want from me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy Lewis/Irene Adler (Elementary), "Doppelgänger Crossover" and "locked in". Mostly PWP with a tinge of plot that might get a prequel someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Impossible" by Anberlin.

The woman picks Darcy up at the bar and Darcy lets her, because she’s gorgeous and blonde and smiles like the devil’s in her eyes.

Darcy’s wrong, of course. If anything’s evil and sinful about Irene, it’s her mouth.

Which is naturally the first thing she went for.

They go back to Darcy’s place in the lower echelons of Stark Tower (”my flatmate,” Irene says apologetically in her sexy-as-all-hell British accent, “she’s a surgeon, keeps _ghastly_ hours”, and Darcy’s never brought someone back there before but right now she can’t think why that would be past the _want_ ) where she proceeds to take Darcy apart piece by piece. She starts with Darcy’s hands, brushing each fingertip against the saucy tilt of her upper lip before sucking them down to the knuckle with a positively filthy grin, her tongue softly brushing against the skin like butterflies’ wings. Next she takes Darcy’s arm, nibbles the line of her collarbone, whispering “mine” in Darcy’s ear before she softly bites down on the lobe.

Dating nerds has exposed Darcy to detail-oriented people, but Irene’s on a completely different level. It makes her hesitant at first, trying to figure out the best way to unwrap her gorgeous dress when her natural inclination toward sloppiness is made even worse by the two beers she had at the bar.

“Come, now,” she whispers, hot and close against Darcy’s neck, when Darcy plucks at the ribbon that seems to be holding the whole thing together. “None of that. Kiss me like you’ve stolen me, lovely girl.”

Darcy absolutely _ruins_ the elegant sweep of Irene’s chignon when she pulls her close for a kiss. It’s worth it, so worth it, as the slick glide of their tongues forces a whimper from her throat. The dress gets yanked down, Darcy wrapping the luxurious fabric around her fingers before she casts it aside. Irene’s one of those lucky girls who doesn’t have to wear a bra, the girls Darcy’s always wanted to be (especially when her shoulders hurt after a long day), but she’ll settle for mouthing the sweet curves of her breasts, perfect little pillows that respond instantly to her touch. “Oh, marvelous,” Irene purrs when, on a hunch, Darcy purses her lips around one of her nipples and gives it a long, soft tug with just a hint of teeth. “Well done, you.”

“‘S what I do,” Darcy replies with a warm grin, which is right about when the Tower goes on lockdown, windows sliding shut with a metallic _thunk_. “Aw, are you _kidding_?” she whines when the keypad on her door flashes from green to blue to purple before finally turning a dull, angry red. She looks up at Irene apologetically. “I’m sorry, this is the downside of the place, but I know a go—guy, I can get you—”

Irene places a perfectly manicured fingernail against Darcy’s lips and just like that, she shuts up. Maybe Jane should start keeping hot blonde _women_ in the lab. “You know,” she muses, “I daresay I’m right where I want to be.” She smirks, lazy yet knowing. “If the building’s sealed, we might as well use the time to our advantage.”

She proves herself right, at great length, and by the end of the night neither of them has even a bobby pin to her name. Darcy even forgets about the lockdown. (Well, at one point she blearily thinks that if someone’s out there looking for a crime in progress it’s probably not good to scream so much, but then Irene sucks her clit into her mouth while three of her fingers twist inside of her and it’s all Darcy can do to stay on the bed.)

Darcy wakes much too early to a polite knocking on the door, but there’s still a tousled head of blond curls on the pillow next to hers so it’s all good in her book. She pulls on a robe and heads to the door as the knocking gets louder; God, don’t they know people are trying to _sleep_? Super-sexy, hot people that are way out of Darcy’s league?

“This better be go—” Darcy’s mouth snaps shut. Standing at her door are Captain America and the Black Widow, along with a handful of suit-clad SHIELD agents. Tony _never_ lets agents into his building. “What the hell is going on?” she whispers, adjusting her robe to try and cover as much of herself as she can.

“Miss Lewis.” Steve’s eyes are kind, but focused; they’re friends, sure, but they’ve also got company. “Are you alone in your residence?”

“No,” she barely manages to say before Widow and Cap exchange a look and just like that, she’s gently but firmly pushed out of the way so the Widow can pass. An unpleasant churning has begun in her stomach, and she wishes she could blame it on the beer. “What’s going on?” she repeats, wishing it held the conviction of ten seconds ago.

Something slams in the bedroom, and Darcy jumps. A few moments later Natasha comes out, bringing with her a sheet-clad woman whose beautiful head is bowed. “Ms. Moriarty,” Steve begins to say, like he’s got something bad in his mouth, but then the woman looks up and Captain America, red-blooded defender of truth and liberty, turns white as a ghost. “Private _Lorraine_?”

“Steven,” she says, that curling smile back on her face, but now there’s something delicately, viciously cruel about it. “Lovely to see you again. And looking so well.”

“You should be dead,” Cap whispers, and the phalanx of agents shifts uncomfortably behind him, until Natasha gives them a glare that straightens their spines. “You were—” He stops, swallows hard only once before his face hardens into his Cap mask. “We’re taking you in.”

“If you must,” she shrugs, looking like a deposed queen in Darcy’s 200-thread-count olive green sheets. Her eyes are taking in _everything_ —the room, the agents, Darcy herself—with the same detached interest, like she’s deciding what she wants to play with first. “Though I’d hoped to go on the guided tour.”

“For your sake, I hope you waited,” Natasha murmurs in that cold, detached voice. Irene—the woman— _Moriarty_ smirks.

“Do you know, the last time I arranged to steal a kiss, I managed to do quite well for myself,” she says, flicking a glance at Steve, who clenches his jaw so hard Darcy can _feel_ his teeth grind. “Considering what I just did with your little mascot, were I you, I would be _very_ worried.” She blows a kiss to Darcy, who looks away, cheeks burning, willing herself to disappear.

They all leave her behind, huddled and lost in her kitchenette, as they march down the hall and straight to the black SUVs that are undoubtedly parked out front. For a long time Darcy stares at nothing; memories from last night keep playing on repeat in her head, a purgatory of her own making. Only when she thinks to turn the tables somehow, to take something back, does a scrap of memory surface from the haze of the morning. With shaking hands, she calls Steve.

“Darcy,” he sighs, but she’s not here for forgiveness.

“Sherlock,” she says, voice rough from lack of sleep (or that’s what she’ll say, if he asks). “I think it’s a person, but whatever it is, it’s important to her. Use it.”


	4. pride (i just wanna break you down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve/Darcy, "power dynamics" and "mind games". In which Darcy is just about the opposite of the omniscient third-person narrator even though she can read minds.
> 
> There is deliberate mind-fuckery, as per the prompt, but nothing too creepy/dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Makedamnsure" by Taking Back Sunday.

Darcy’s been a nerd all her life, and the only way she’s ever hit back against the big and powerful is through the side of her mouth. So when overexposure to dark energy triggers her latent telepathy, naturally she first uses the ability to make Captain America think everyone around him is has forgotten their shirts (but only when he catches a glimpse of them in his peripheral vision).

“Oh, c’mon, it’s harmless!” she protests to Jane, who is immune to Darcy’s new power thanks to repeated contact with Asgardian magic, specifically Mjolnir. (“You mean _contact with Thor’s hammer_?” Darcy snickered. Jane threw a binder clip at her.) “It’s not like I fried his brain or anything. Not that I could”—which might not be entirely true but there’s no way Jane will keep this to herself if she knows _that_ —“but the point stands.”

“Darcy, the man is walking around with his eyes closed. In the Tower. You’ve tripped and spilled your coffee in this building how many times? With your eyes open?”

Darcy scowls. “I always clean it up.”

“I really, really wish I could say ‘I can’t believe you,’ but sadly, I can.” Jane glares at her. “Was Steve’s just the nearest brain you could actually get inside?”

_Well, no, but his was definitely the most interesting_ _._ In order to actually read anything detailed she has to be both in close proximity and trying—thank Thor it’s not like everyone’s an open book, she’s got enough problems of her own—but Darcy can get what amounts to an aerial view of people’s brains. Some are easy to step inside and some have walls; some are disorganized piles of debris and others are clean enough for company. _Shockingly_ , Captain Tightpants of the Always-Disapproving Gaze is in the latter group, one step away from color-coded filing. Darcy tries not to be impressed.

That, and also, “He’s like, a benchmark, Jane. If I can get into Cap’s brain, that’s a pretty good indication of how powerful this is, right?”

“Actually, one of our resident geniuses might be a better—” Jane cuts herself off so sharply Darcy’s pretty sure she actually just bit her tongue. “Never mind, I am not part of this, you will not pull me along on this horrible path.”

“Too late.” Darcy pats her hand. “I actually did think about that, but considering one of the two Bros has a mental trigger for his green alter-ego, do you really think I should go digging in his brain-pan?”

Jane winces. “Well, what about Tony?”

“Like Tony Stark would react to seeing boobs,” she snorts.

“Yeah, but it didn’t _have_ to be boobs.” She side-eyes Darcy. “Did it?”

“For the Boy Scout? Um, duh.”

“We’re still at a point where you’re picking on Steve specifically,” Jane says, and Darcy rolls her eyes.

“Ugh, fine, ruin everything.” She closes her eyes, reaches out through the sea of minds scattered throughout the building to find that Cap’s just a few floors below, apparently waiting for the in-house medical team to give him the results from his emergency eye exam. It actually works a lot like filing, or maybe that’s just how she’s making it work because that’s what she knows; either way, she plunges inside his mind, picks up the “folder” with the boob-vision, and spirals out, leaving behind a “Post-It note” that instructs him to open his eyes. “All fixed, never shall I sin again, blah blah blah.”

She opens her own eyes to see Jane, eyeing her consideringly, the energy-reader-thing in her hand merrily blinking numbers up at them. Darcy totally should have broken it after the last time, it’s nothing but trouble. “Interesting,” Jane drawls, and Darcy can feel the blood drain from her face. “Hold still, I want to check something.”

* * * * *

Several hours later, when Darcy finally escapes Jane’s lab, her promise is thoroughly redacted. If Jane can do all of _that_ to her loyal, innocent intern’s body in the name of science, then by Thor, Darcy gets to run at least one more experiment of her own on Captain America’s mind.

It turns out that tonight’s just one of the nights that he visits the kids at the nearby cancer center, just another of the wonderful things he does that make people like Darcy feel small and mean. “What, can’t visit the adults?” she mutters to herself, kicking the side of one of the lobby chairs and ignoring the receptionist’s glare. Marcia and she are already mortal enemies, after last month’s Chai Latte Incident. She’d mess with her instead, but that would mean prolonged contact with the woman’s mind and ew, no. “Has to be the cute little squirts? Bet there are tons of grown-ups who’d like someone to talk to while they fight cancer, just sayin’.”

He gets back at 8 p.m. sharp, giving Darcy just enough time to hack into the elevator feed (if anyone asks, she’s waiting for a pizza; true, without technically being The Truth, since she put the order through online as soon as she felt Cap get within range). Closing her eyes again, she slips in and out in a flash, leaving a carbon copied fragment of her own memories on Steve’s “desk”.

When she opens her eyes onto the feed, Cap is looking around suspiciously. Exactly seven seconds pass, and he flinches again, craning his neck up to the ceiling. Laughing, Darcy gleefully claps her hands; she hadn’t been sure she could make him think he was hearing things, but the way he’s squirming in his pleated-front khakis makes it obvious that he hears _something_ , even if it’s not the porn-star moans she left for him to, ahem, enjoy.

By the time he reaches his floor Steve’s looking distinctly disturbed, casting glances at the elevator panel like he’s going to hit the button for the medical floor any second. Which could be funny, but also very suspicious, and Darcy’s all about the long game. She pulls the “file” but keeps up the video feed, because after all, she does have a pizza coming.

Not to mention, she hates to see Cap go but loves to watch him leave, especially when he’s got his shoulders hunched high enough to bring the bottom of his leather jacket up to his waist.

* * * * *

It’s not that Darcy’s a bad person, or that she’s _torturing_ Steve, like Jane thinks (or would think, if Darcy admitted any of her continued exploits). She’s more or less as petty, or impulsive, or childish as everyone else; funny how it takes developing a unique skill like mind-reading to really appreciate how much of a non-snowflake you really are.

Something about him pulls at her, though, and half of the time it’s the wrong way. It bothers her, that something like imagining someone’s rack sends him into a tailspin; how he uses his work to avoid matching his past to his future, let alone his wardrobe to what everyone under 60 is wearing today. He’s so sure he’s doing the right thing, though, and he’s so fucking stubborn that short of someone crawling into his head to shake things up, nobody’s ever going to get close enough to move the furniture around.

So, Darcy does it for him. But she’s subtle, damn it, she doesn’t lock him into a porn scene for hours, she just… pops in from time to time, takes a few scraps of whatever’s rattling around in there and amplifies it. Pin-up girls lose the rest of their clothes. Memories of billboards in Times Square become even more suggestive, more lewd, inviting eyes and pouting lips. She doesn’t make them perfect; nobody is, except maybe Steve, and he shouldn’t expect it. But she does keep his tastes in mind, and so there’s plenty of curves and tits to keep him distracted (except for on missions, she’s not _psychotic_ ).

Every time she gets a reaction, then, it’s just the pleasure of a job well-done. Well, mostly. Partially.

Lying to herself sure was a lot easier before she saw how much everyone else does it.

* * * * *

Being invited to the monthly meetings where the science departments touch base with the Avengers is probably supposed to be a big honor since she’s a lowly lab monkey and all, but banana balls, they’re boring. Darcy doesn’t handle boredom well; she tends to require added stimulation, like explosions. (Which explains why Ian got left back in London, though they’re totally Facebook friends.)

Shade is definitely being thrown her way from somewhere in the room, but she figures it’s because everyone else is jealous that she’s managing to play the latest remake of Bejeweled (this one has tiny hats of all shapes and colors, the Viking one’s her fave) while they have to be important. Then a hand slams onto the table in front of her, and her phone flies out of her hand.

She looks up into the angry, blazing blue gaze of Captain America, and holy shit is he scary. And hot. But mostly scary. “Think you could pay attention when we’re talking, Miss Lewis?”

“What?” she says with the weight of all her wit and wisdom.

His lip curls, and he looks disappointed. “Forget it,” he mutters, and stalks out of the room.

Slack-jawed, Darcy watches him go, then remembers that oh yeah, there are other people in the room. All of whom are eyeing her with varying degrees of censure. It makes her feel, well, bad. Which in turn, makes her feel rebellious, and resentful, and like she needs to get out of there _right now_ before her inner child makes her completely forget how to adult.

So she does.

Except Steve didn’t get far, and he tries to grab her arm as she passes him in the hall, which is _not okay_ , and so she opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off. Her brain gets there first, though, so fast that she doesn’t manage to get out of his head before they both see the very detailed graphic of Steve Rogers literally, well…

Fucking off.

She blinks, and yep, there’s the real Steve, staring at her with dawning comprehension. Wow, this moment is so much worse than she imagined. “Uh oh,” she squeaks out, just before he yanks her down the hall and toward the stairwell, whose emergency alarm he disables with a swift blow of his fist.

“Look at the time, gotta go,” she chuckles weakly, trying to step around him as he walks her into the stairwell, but he’s got her backed into a corner. This isn’t hot temper; it’s cold calculation, like he knows exactly just how little he has to move to keep her contained.

“You’ve been doing this?” he demands. “Makin’ me—”

“No?” she tries. Steve glowers, and she sighs. “Okay, kind of. Look, before you hand me off to the fuzz, let me expla—”

Steve is kissing her. No, scratch that, kissing is what her grandma does to her cheek when she goes home for Christmas. Steve has got his tongue in her mouth and he is _devouring_ her, backing her up against the wall until every inch of her is pressed between the cool wall and his hot (very hot) body. Oh God, she’s kissing him back, pulling at the short ends of his hair as she tries to wriggle even closer.

“Tease,” he growls against her mouth, and goes back for more. When they break for air, she’s pretty sure someone’s shirt is ripped. Probably his. “Foster told me something was up, but I didn’t think _you_ —”

“You _knew_?”

“Not everything. Enough.” He looks down at her, licks his lips. It should be a nervous gesture, because this is Cap, except Darcy’s starting to feel like all those times she popped inside his head to shift things around she really had no idea who she was dealing with. “You gonna keep runnin’ that filthy mouth of yours, Lewis, or you gonna back it up for once?”

“Go to hell, Rogers,” she retorts, and they crash together again.

The dark red button-up shirt survived New Mexico and London with nary a scratch; Steve shreds it in seconds, tearing it open and sending buttons flying. “Shit,” he curses, “they _were_ yours,” and by the time Darcy manages a shaky “Huh?” his mouth is on her tits, biting and nipping at the flesh exposed by her bra. His hands are everywhere, unhooking her bra and wrapping her legs around his waist in one fluid sweep that makes her almost as dizzy as the way it feels when he sucks on one of her nipples for the first time.

“They’re better in real life,” he tells her in a low, rough voice, casting aside her bra with a careless flick of his wrist. His gaze never leaves her tits, God, she can feel her nipples tighten even more when he looks at them.

“But you never saw me—oh,” she says, both because he’s started to slowly thrust against her, and she’s just realized that at least one of the times when she sent images of naked women to Steve’s brain one of them was her and she didn’t even know it. “ _Oh_ ,” she says again, because if that’s the case, then maybe all this hasn’t been because she wants to bring Captain America down to her level, but because she wants _Steve_ to look at her and see—

“Darce,” he groans against her neck, and just like that, she’s more than ready to stop thinking and live in the moment.

His wallet’s digging into the side of her knee so she pulls it out of his back pocket, and lo and behold, there’s a condom in it, fresh enough that it hasn’t left much of an imprint on the leather. Grinning, she pulls it out and holds it in her teeth while she works on getting Steve as half-dressed and ready to go as she is. Apparently this sort of forward behavior is nothing short of inspiring to Steve, who barely lets her yank his shirt from his waistband before he strips her out of pants and panties in one go. Knowing she’s dripping wet is one thing but feeling the chilled air of the stairwell hit her exposed skin really drives it home.

It doesn’t have time to become uncomfortable before Steve’s backing her against the wall again, his pants and boxer briefs barely off his hips. Darcy doesn’t care, because they’re low enough for her to reach out for his cock, flushed and hard against his belly, and give it a few rough gropes as they try to arrange themselves without actually moving apart. From the way his eyes roll back in his head, Steve does not give a shit about finesse right now, and that is just fine by her. He grabs the condom wrapper and together they get it open and rolled down.

“Last chance, Lewis,” he growls, which is a damn lie because he’s already pressing into her. He only stops once, halfway through, to pull her up just a little bit higher so that when he pushes forward again it only takes a swift, slick glide to have him throbbing inside her, full and lush.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she hisses, thrusting back against him.

She catches his smirk right before he takes her mouth again, tongue lazily thrusting into her mouth as he stretches her wide. She’s so close already but Darcy still makes him work for it, dragging his hand to her clit before she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in even closer. The rough press of his thumb on her clit, those big fingers curled around her hipbone, is exactly what she needs. She pants and moans into his mouth before trailing into a high-pitched whine, coming so hard it makes her toes curl. Steve fucks her through it, holding her up as her muscles go slack, the harsh, wet rhythm of his breath against her neck the only thing keeping her grounded.

He cries out, and his hips stutter against hers before he shoves himself against her one last time. God, he’s probably holding her up with just them as he comes, her name slurred against her skin, tiny muscle spasms racing from his body to hers.

The stairwell echoes with their breathing, and for a moment Darcy feels a hysterical swell of pity for anyone who decided to work off carbs by skipping the elevator today. Right now, though, there isn’t anyone in range.

To be fair, her range is terrible right now thanks to having her mind blown by Captain America, but it’s a worthy sacrifice.

Sound isn’t the only thing filtering back in, though, and though it fills her with regret Darcy suspects they’ll have to move pretty soon or else she’s gonna fall over. “Think we should move?” she asks, because after all, she doesn’t _know_ , and if Steve thinks they should stay then, well, he is the strategy expert.

“I dunno,” he replies, “you tell me.”

For a second she thinks he’s just being lazy, but when she pulls back to look at him that smirk is firmly back in place, and what was already sexy is downright _scorching_ when combined with flushed cheeks and sweat-darkened hair. She closes her eyes, and it’s different, doing this when she’s been invited in; warmer, and with the sense that someone’s sitting nearby watching her with a smile.

Which is nice, but it’s really hard to pay attention to warm fuzzies when right in front of her she sees a snippet of imagination that’s _very_ specifically tailored to them both. (Well, Steve doesn’t look nearly as big as he really is—oof, and how—and Darcy looks like an impossibly hot version of herself, but she gets the gist, even if Steve is a total dweeb who needs to check his perceptions.) They’re in a shower, and Darcy’s grabbing some strategically-placed handholds on the wall while Steve licks his way up her back. As she watches, they turn toward her, give her the hottest, most filthy grins she’s seen this side of a stairwell, and then Steve steps closer to shower-Darcy and they start to—

Her eyes fly open and she gasps, but Steve’s got her before she can fall over. “You okay?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Oh my God, we are going to your room _right now_ ,” she says, and he laughs, low and dirty with just a hint of sweetness. It’s a combination Darcy thinks she could get used to.

“Hope you weren’t planning on wearing your shirt.”


	5. sloth (something we’ve been afraid to find)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy/Bucky/Steve, "first time" and "toys and games". Holiday fic with a healthy serving of porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "First Time" by Lifehouse.

_It’s not weird_ , Darcy tells herself for the umpteenth time as she climbs the stairs to Steve and Bucky’s apartment. _It’s not weird, so don’t make it weird_. If she repeats it enough times, it’ll work, right?

Which is a great theory, but once again Darcy proves that mind over matter is BS the second the door opens and she sees Bucky, his hair tousled and eyes glazed. For a quick, awful moment of total insight she envisions herself as he must see her: arms laden with shopping bags, her outerwear an awful mishmash of clashing because she kind of just grabbed stuff on the way out of the lab and so she may or may not be wearing Dr. Richards’s coat. And Bruce’s big green mittens that she knit herself.

In other words, Darcy is one step away from a blue ribbon in New York’s Best Bag Lady contest.

At least the scarf is hers.

Then Bucky smiles, and by reflex, so does she, and maybe this won’t be so bad, right? “Hey, kid,” he says, and she tries not to wince as hope takes yet another blow.

“Happy Christmas Eve Eve!” she chirps instead, waving her arms as well as she can when they’re laden with so much stuff. “Uh, it’s the 23rd still, right?”

“Jesus, let me take some of those,” Bucky says, reaching out with his metal arm, and she sighs gratefully as he lightens her load and ushers her inside. “Yeah, it is, though you’re cuttin’ it close. The hell are you doin’ out this time of night?”

“Wellll,” she admits, trying to loosen her scarf before she realizes it might be a good idea to take off the big floppy mittens first, “due to unforeseen circumstances—which is totally college-speak for laziness, not gonna lie—I kind of didn’t get my shopping done until today. And then I had to wrap stuff, and since the holiday thingy at the Tower starts at noon tomorrow and I’ll probably still be asleep—oh, hey Steve.”

He looks just as tousled as Bucky, and yeah, it’s _technically_ late enough for them to have been in bed, but Darcy’s pretty sure they weren’t sleeping. Which is fine, and perfectly healthy, and far be it from her to judge two gorgeous, built men who happen to have a love story for the ages getting it on.

After three months of bonding over regular historical movie nights, though, she kind of thought one of them might end up getting it on with _her_. Not that she could have picked one over the other, but still, it stings a little. Or a lot, but the point is that she’s currently staring at them both like a moron and needs to _stop it right now_.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts out, because that’s what you’re supposed to say when two of your best friends move into a new place together as a couple, even if you’ve been avoiding them for the past week. “Glad you guys finally got your stuff together and got a place and all that, uh, stuff.”

Bucky and Steve exchange a look, and another theory dies: one cannot be swallowed by the awkward, even when it reaches critical mass. Wow, there’s so much science going on here, Jane would be so proud. Then Steve grins, and slides his hand into Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze before he turns to smile at Darcy. “Thanks, Darce. You wanna cup of coffee or somethin’?”

“I wish,” she says despondently, because Steve makes amazing coffee but she’s pretty sure she can’t handle this right now. “But you know how it is, places to see, things to do. I just, well, your Christmas gifts are also housewarming gifts and also I thought you might want them before tomorrow?”

“Gifts?” says Bucky, arching an eyebrow.

“That bag’s all yours,” she says, pointing toward the Macy’s bag, whose giant red star she may or may not have drawn concentric circles around in Sharpie while she was waiting in line at GameStop to pay for Natasha’s present. “I expect you boys to be nice, share, and maintain proper sportsmanlike behavior.”

Orders given, she goes to put the mittens back on, but Steve’s hand on her arm makes her freeze in her tracks. “Not gonna stay to watch us open them?”

“I need to get to the Tower still, and—”

Bucky’s already shaking his head no. “Honey, no offense, but if you think we’re lettin’ you walk alone from here to the Tower this time of night then you’re outta your damn mind. Actually,” he says, concerned look deepening into a frown, “I think we oughta talk about how you got _here_.”

“I clicked my heels three times, Barnes,” she retorts, but puts the mittens back in the coat’s pockets. “Okay, fine, impress me with your holiday cheer. But Steve gets to open the first one.”

“See, Buck? Pays to be nice,” Steve says smugly, walking over to where Bucky deposited the bags and taking theirs with a grin. Darcy surreptitiously rubs her arm where his hand was, but the tingling doesn’t fade away.

“I’m nice,” he protests, and Darcy can’t hold back her snort, and for a moment it feels like it used to, when they’d curl up on the couch together and Darcy caught them up on history via films of questionable veracity and always-awesome sarcastic commentary. But then Steve rolls his eyes, and Bucky blows him a kiss, and she sighs but follows them to the living room anyway.

“Wow, these are all for us?” Steve says, pulling each box from the bag to place them on the coffee table. A few are similar to each other, but they vary in size, shape, and bendability, as well as gift wrap colors. Some of them were also _much_ harder to find, but she thinks it’ll be worth it. “You sure you counted right?”

“Ten is the magic number,” she says, flopping onto the couch with a slight groan. Her knee-length boots were hella cute and helped guard against the slush of old snow, but they just weren’t made for the epic retail battle she’d undertaken after a long day of work. “And not just because I can count that high on my fingers, so save it, Barnes.”

“Wasn’t gonna say a word,” he assures her, even though his smirk says volumes. Like _I totally was_ and _I’m bunking with a hot blond super-soldier_ and _you’re fun and all Darcy but I’m way too freaking amazing for you and so is Steve and we all know it_.

“Whatever,” she says, “do what you must,” and waves a limp hand at the gifts that seemed so big and shiny in the bag but now look sort of insignificant.

But Steve lingers over the packages, hands hovering over each of them before he goes for the smallest one, two little boxes stacked on top of each other and tied with ribbon. “Catch,” he says to Bucky, chucking one of the boxes at him, which is gross insubordination but Darcy’s warm and tired and just can’t bring herself to mind. Despite herself, she’s kind of curious to see what they’ll think, and okay, maybe there’s a curl of hope that they’ll be impressed.

“Silly Putty?” Steve says, delighted, as he holds up the orange egg-shaped container. Bucky, of course, got the pink one. “What does it do?”

“What _doesn’t_ it do?” Darcy replies with a grin. “But no, you can like, bounce it off of stuff, and if you press it on comics it’ll hold the image. Some guy created it in World War II to try and replace rubber but it didn’t work out for him.”

“You didn’t get this for everyone, right?” Bucky asks. “Kinda scared to think what Barton’ll do with this.”

“Nope. Everything here is just for you guys.” _Even me_ , she almost jokes, but it’s a bit too close to home to be funny anymore.

“Everything, huh?” Bucky says, and grabs another package. She’d wondered if they might be the sort of neat and finicky unwrappers who folded the paper well enough to reuse, but they’re both rippers of the first quality, thus reinforcing their mutual perfection. “Hey, model airplanes!”

Steve opens Scrabble next, then they both open bubbles and Slinkies, then Bucky unwraps Candy Land and Steve gets Cluedo (not Clue, and thank Thor they live in New York, where she can buy the British version with the older name without resorting to the Internet). All she could find on such short notice was the modern-day version of Cootie, but the Scrabble board is the stylin’ deluxe edition and the Magic 8-Ball is always vintage.

The boys have become fully immersed in the unwrapping process, sitting side by side as they compare their haul. Darcy watches them and smiles, willing away any pangs in the heart region; even if she can’t have them, they deserve this, to be happy with each other as they enjoy the holidays. They’ve managed to end with her personal favorite: two books of paper dolls, chosen with loving care and attention to detail.

“Think this one’s yours, Steve,” Bucky cracks, holding up the “Ballerina Fairies” book.

“Nah, I think I’m set,” Steve replies, wrinkling his nose as “Glitter Mermaids” lives up to its name, shedding sparkles all over his pajama pants.

“I feel like they do you both justice,” she assures them gravely, then squeals and hides behind the nearest throw pillow as two Silly Putty eggs come flying at her. “Hey, watch the goods!”

“Not like we can get to ‘em with that coat in the way,” Steve says, then pauses. “Wait, whose coat is that?”

“Eh, Dr. Richards’s.” Suddenly Bucky and Steve are staring at her, and she throws her hands up. “What, the lights were all off, and I just grabbed what I could!” They’re still staring at her, and this is getting kind of creepy; what are they, the winter-wear soldiers? “I’ll put it back tomorrow, it’s not like he can’t just, y’know, shrink down or stretch out to fit whatever coat he finds.”

“Take it off,” Steve commands, and Darcy lets out an exasperated growl.

“I’ll just have to put it back on when I leave,” she mutters, but she starts to unbutton the wool. The squishy couch and the fact that it’s long enough to reach to her calves and thus to sit on makes it hard to wriggle free, so she has to contort a bit, but she pries herself free and tosses it at Steve, who barely catches it. “You know, in order to snitch on me, you’d have to actually talk to him,” she points out.

“Jesus, calm down,” Bucky murmurs to Steve, whose jaw is clenched so tight she can see it tic. “Let me take this one over, huh?” He squeezes Steve’s arm before he crosses over to the couch, sitting on the edge. “Honey, are you and Richards..?”

It takes a really long time for the penny to drop, but Darcy thinks that that’s justified because Richards might be nerdy-hot but then he opens his mouth and ew, just no. Though apparently he might not give the same condescension that he gives to female lab assistants who don’t actually speak science to other (male) superheroes. What a shock. “Barnes, that is gross,” she says, screwing up her face in disgust. “And you, Steve, you actually thought—”

“You implied,” he says, moving closer, “that you were in a dark room, with him, and you came out of it wearing his coat.”

Darcy throws her hands up in exasperation. “Yeah, it was dark, because I work for batshit scientists who think it’s perfectly rational to cut the floor’s electricity so it doesn’t interfere with their experiment! Do you know how cold it gets on the 53rd floor of a building here, in December? They’re lucky I didn’t take everyone’s coat!”

Great, now Bucky’s scowling. Usually she tries to be good, but she’d forgotten that he gets testy sometimes about low temperatures. “They made you work like that?”

“Oh my God,” Darcy sighs, and makes a swipe for the coat, but Steve snatches it out of her grasp. “Nope, give it here, I’m going to leave before you ruin Christmas. With the hovering, and the mother-henning, and thinking you have any say in my life.”

“The hell we don’t,” Steve snaps.

“You’re not my boyfriend, okay?” she blurts, and for a moment there’s horrible silence. But Darcy’s used to that, she works for people who do horrible, awful things in the name of science, and she can fix this, she can. “While it’s nice that you care, it’s really not your place to get huffy about my job, or whether or not I’m—ugh, I can’t even say it—with Richards, because that’s my place, maybe my mom’s, _maybe_ my boyfriend’s, and neither of you is dating me.”

It should work; she used the Rational Adult voice and everything. The boys should agree, they should crack jokes for a bit and then they’ll call her a cab and she’ll go back to Manhattan for the night. Instead, what happens is Bucky licks his lips, looks at her and asks, “Do you want us to be?”

Darcy wonders if this is what it felt like when Jane hit Thor with the car: her body just locks, the connection between it and her brain just gone. She’s pretty sure her jaw’s scraping the floor, though she can’t be sure. “What?”

The couch dips beside her, and warmth covers one of her hands; it’s Steve, wrapping her fingers in his. “We talked about it,” he says quietly, “and it turns out that we’re both kinda crazy about you and didn’t realize it until you weren’t around.”

“Which is shitty,” Bucky admits, scooting closer to take her other hand. His flesh-and-blood thumb rubs the center of her palm while the metal digits idly play with her fingertips, fire and ice with Steve’s steady heat on the other side. “And you don’t deserve to be taken for granted by a coupla jerks like us. But, uh, we were kinda hopin’ you’d let us anyway.”

“What I think Bucky is trying to say,” Steve adds with a hint of fond exasperation, “is that being around you felt so comfortable and-and _right_ , that we both might’ve been scared to muck it up.”

“Was easier to leave things as they were,” Bucky says with a lopsided grin.

“But not right,” Steve adds. “So, if you’ll forgive us…” He sighs deeply, lifts his head to meet her gaze, and his eyes are blue and sincere. “We’d like to start makin’ it up to you.”

“Honey?” Bucky asks quietly, and it’s the faint tremor in his voice that makes her realize this is real, it’s actually happening, and if she doesn’t jump on this now she’d regret losing out almost as much as she’d regret hurting her boys.

“Me too,” she says, with all the breath she can muster. “I—I’m crazy about you guys too.”

“Oh thank God,” Bucky sighs, resting his forehead against her shoulder as he slumps in relief. Darcy can’t help it, she starts to laugh, joy and delight singing through her veins as Steve wraps his arms around them both, resting his chin on top of her head.

“So, what’s the deal with the presents?” Bucky finally asks, when they’ve sunk into their shared embrace enough to let everyone’s heart stop pounding quite so much.

“Top ten toys of the 1940s,” Darcy informs them. “Some of them are late ‘40s, but I… I thought it might be nice, to have something from then that’s still part of now. Also, I was kind of hoping you’d bust them out with the rest of the gang and I could get blackmail pics of Stark playing Candy Land.”

She feels Bucky’s smile curve against her neck as Steve chuckles. “Our girl’s pretty smart, Buck,” says Steve. “Now I wish we hadn’t taken your presents to the Tower.”

“I’m patient,” Darcy shrugs, like she’s someone who hasn’t been subtly casing the two identical packages since they appeared under the tree a week ago (she totally isn’t). “Besides, giving and receiving and all that, you know how it goes.”

“I dunno,” Bucky drawls, and there’s something in his voice that makes her skin prickle even though Darcy’s more warm than she’s been all day. “Still feel like we oughta give her somethin’, Cap. She did come all the way here.”

“That she did,” Steve murmurs, and Darcy feels like she ought to be standing at attention. But then Bucky starts dropping little kisses along her jawline, while Steve brushes her hair out of the way with long strokes that more often than not end with his fingertips tracing the shell of her ear or the sweep of her cheekbone. “Darce?”

“Well,” she allows, letting out a tiny gasp as the tip of Bucky’s tongue brushes her skin, “maybe not a present, but I could stick around for some, _mmm_ , quality time.”

She’s going to have to remember that phrase; apparently it translates to “take me now, studs” in Steve-and-Bucky-speak. Moving almost in tandem, they lunge forward, and in the blur of limbs someone’s big, strong hands move her up to her knees as well. Since she ends up bracketed by both of them, Bucky at her back and Steve at her front, Darcy can’t bring herself to mind.

Steve’s the first one who kisses her, and to her surprise he doesn’t spend much time at all on the romantic stuff before he’s tracing his tongue along the seam of her lips. Cap’s got a bit of a naughty side in bed too, it seems, squeezing her hands with his before he places them on his chest, using his fingertips to press her nails into his shirt as he slips his tongue inside her mouth. She digs in and lets him swallow her moan, arching back as Bucky’s hands sweep from her hips and up to her sides.

“Jesus, Darce,” Bucky mutters into her ear before he nips at it, and she breaks away from Steve’s kiss to meet Bucky’s. They test each other, nibbling at lips before tongues dart out to taste, and if the way Steve just groaned is any indication then they’re both pretty well-matched. “Look how gorgeous our girl is, punk,” Bucky rasps before he dives back in again, kissing her until she’s breathless. “Gonna make her feel good?”

“Someone’s gotta pick up your slack,” Steve retorts, busy undoing her scarf. When he’s got it free Bucky uses it to pull him in, and now the two of them are kissing, so close she can feel their breath. It’s the hottest thing she’s seen in her life, and Darcy’s witnessed a god walking around in nothing but tight black jeans and a smile.

“Oh my God, shirts, off, now,” she orders when they come up for air, and with matching smirks they oblige. Where Steve is golden and bare, Bucky’s a bit more pale, with a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, but they’re both cut and gorgeous and she is the luckiest girl on the planet right now, _seriously_.

So obviously, since it’s the season of giving, she should make sure she enjoys that sight to the fullest, for the rest of humankind. Since she’s already got being incredibly turned on covered, she starts running her hands over both of them, using trial and error to figure out what each one of her men likes. What the hell, she might as well do something for science too.

Apparently with the right motivation, Darcy is awesome at science—take that, Richards!—because it doesn’t take long before Bucky’s hands have ripped her shirt open, sending its buttons flying. “Well, damn,” Steve says, running his hands beneath the T-shirt she had on underneath, “gonna be harder than we thought.”

“Layers,” she informs him, “are the secret to surviving winter in this city. Whoa!” she yelps, because Steve is trying to yank her shirt over her head with the sort of focused determination she usually only sees in their news footage. “Little help here, Barnes?”

“Sure thing, honey,” he says, and with a swift, efficient move he pulls her arms back with one hand so he can strip her button-up shirt off with the other. The T-shirt follows suit, but they’re both bunched around her wrists because Bucky’s still holding them. A quick glance down at the way it makes her boobs jut out, and then at the way Steve’s eyes have turned dark, reveals the extent of his tactical genius.

She leans back further with a toss of her hair, and Steve licks his lips. “You okay, Darce?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Could be better,” she says with a smirk of her own, glancing from his mouth down to her boobs, which really do look fantastic in this position.

“Jesus, Steve, you put your mouth on ‘em or I will,” Bucky snaps, and just like that, Steve’s got his face buried in her cleavage, licking and sucking at the curves of her tits until Darcy feels like she’s gonna explode. Looking for something to ground her, she reaches back with her fingertips and finds the drawstring of Bucky’s pajamas. A quick, insistent tug and he scoots forward just enough for her to trace the outline of his cock, thick and jutting, through the flannel.

Bucky curses, thrusting forward, and it takes some maneuvering but Darcy’s got skills even when an American icon is yanking down her bra cups so he can close his perfect lips around her aching nipples. She slips three fingers inside the button flap, discovering to her delight that her suspicions were correct: Bucky’s going commando. She traces her fingers along the veins of his cock, working her way up.

“The hell are you two doin’ back there?” Steve surfaces to ask. It’s a fair question, as Bucky lets loose a heartfelt groan while Darcy rubs the drops of his precome over the sensitive head.

“Nothin’,” Bucky pants, rewarding Darcy’s efforts by shoving his pants down far enough to free his cock and slide it into her grasp.

“Nope, nothing at all,” Darcy agrees, smirking at Steve’s arched eyebrow as she works Bucky’s cock between her hands.

“All right, you two miscreants, you’re comin’ with me,” Steve declares, sliding off the couch and pulling them both to their feet. He casts a glance at Bucky’s exposed cock, but Bucky just gives him an up-yours grin and tugs the pants just high enough so they don’t fall off.

As soon as they’re in the bedroom, the boys work together to strip her out of her boots, socks, and jeans, peeling the denim away until she’s seated on the edge of their bed in her bra and panties. They don’t match, but neither one of them seems to care, which bodes well for their relationship. Of course, there are other positive signs too. “C’mere,” she beckons, and they oblige, stepping close enough for her to reach inside their pants and get her favorite new toys. Later she might think about things like measurements, but right now what matters is it’s Steve, and Bucky, warm and willing in her hands.

The only thing more gratifying than the noises a guy makes when you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his cock, Darcy learns, is the sound that his boyfriend lets loose when he sees you swallowing him down before spiraling up and out with a twist of your tongue. “Feels good, I take it?” Bucky asks Steve, thrusting further into Darcy’s hand.

“Oh God, Buck, you got no idea,” Steve gasps, shuddering as she glides her hand up and down his wet shaft. “Darcy, Darce,” he pants as she pulls Bucky into her mouth, giving him the same treatment but adding the slightest scrape of teeth.

“Hey, Bucky?” she inquires sweetly, looking up at him through his lashes while he pants.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna keep Steve quiet for me?”

Bucky lets out a chuckle. “Honey, that I can do.”

He pulls Steve in again, metal fingers bright against his jaw as they kiss, tongues twining. Now that they’re closer together she can try all sorts of things, and so she does. Not all of them are winners, but she learns, and before long their legs are both starting to shake and she can feel how close they both are to coming.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” Steve tells her sternly, removing her hands from them. “We’re supposed to be making _you_ feel good.”

“Well,” she says, voice a bit hoarse from all the oral action, “full disclosure: blow jobs get me really, really hot. Merry Christmas,” she adds when their eyes light up.

“And Happy New Year,” Bucky says with a wide grin as he strips off his pajama pants, climbing onto the bed.

“Still,” Steve says, though his lips are twitching with amusement as he gets naked too, “we made you a promise, and I for one intend to keep it.”

They’ve got her up on her knees again, but this time Bucky’s the one in front, unclasping her bra and letting it fall down her arms before he tosses it aside. “Jesus Christ,” he says reverently, weighing her breasts in his palms. “Can’t believe you ever hide these under those sweaters.”

“Not all the—oh,” she pants, as Steve’s fingers dip inside her panties, his chest warm against her back. She can feel him suck in his breath as he inches down to find her soaking wet, panties more than damp with her arousal. “Oh, _God_ ,” she groans as one of his fingers sinks briefly into her wetness before sweeping up to rub at her clit.

Never one to miss out on a strategic moment, Bucky starts sucking on her nipples, shaping her breasts with his hands while Steve continues to explore. Past the dark top of Bucky’s head she can catch glimpses of his hand, so big and broad that it’s stretching her panties taut against her hips. If he keeps touching her like this, though, he can do whatever in the hell he wants to them, she decides as she scrapes her fingers through Bucky’s hair, holding him close as she whimpers and tries to tell Steve what feels good.

When he rubs her with two fingers that does it, she’s gone, spiraling off in a series of moans that increase their pitch as he rubs her through it. Bucky’s hands drop to her hips, rocking her against him, which adds a whole new dimension to sensory overload that she didn’t think normal people could reach. They tell her she’s beautiful, that she’s all they want, and while she reserves the right to have bad days down the road, right now, Darcy believes every word.

“You know,” she informs them as she tries to catch her breath, “if you start fucking me now, I might be able to do that again. Not to brag, but I’ve been practicing.”

Their reaction actually makes her head spin, as they quickly maneuver her around so that she’s poised over Bucky, his groin hot against her ass.

“We talked about it earlier,” he murmurs in her ear, pulling her taut against him, “and decided that we should start with Steve watching you take my cock. That okay with you?”

“So okay,” she assures him, and just like that she hears the sound of a condom wrapper opening behind her.

“Super-soldier,” he mutters, “can’t be too safe,” and she gets it, though she makes a mental note to get someone in the lab working on a super-swimmer-proof birth control pill _stat_.

He rolls the condom on in record time, or maybe she just loses track because of the hungry way Steve’s watching them both. It takes some guiding and support from his hands but she spreads her legs wide, and Bucky starts to work his way inside as she slides down. She’s tight from her orgasm, but if he doesn’t mind then she _definitely_ doesn’t. Hell, right now she feels like she could fly, except then Bucky wouldn’t be filling her with every inch of his cock and that would be a travesty.

“He feels good, doesn’t he,” Steve rasps, and the way he says it without asking makes a flame flare to life in the pit of Darcy’s belly. “You gonna ride his cock, sweetheart?”

“Actually,” she drawls before slowly lowering herself into position, “you remember what I said about blow jobs?”

“Fuckin’ genius, Darce,” Bucky gasps, shifting until he’s on his knees behind her, and when she gets to feel Steve’s cock slide into her mouth while Bucky throbs inside of her, she’s kind of inclined to agree.

They work out a rhythm where Bucky’s thrusts push her forward onto Steve’s cock, and occasionally when her jaw gets sore she’ll pull back and let her hands take over. Most of the time, though, it feels too damn good to stop, hot pleasure licking up her legs and occasionally sparking from the brush of the bedsheet against her nipples. Bucky’s hands on her hips, one warm, one cool to the touch, are driving her insane, fingers digging in with pressure that’s just this side of pain. Desperate, so close to coming she can feel it, Darcy grinds back against him, crying out around Steve’s cock as he starts to rotate his hips at the end of his thrusts, his fingers pushing down her hip to rub either side of her clit.

“Oh God, Darce—Darce, I’m gonna—” Steve tries to pull back but she holds him close, flicking her tongue against his cock in short, rapid strokes as he swells and starts to shudder in her mouth, spurts of come hitting the back of her throat. She rolls her eyes up to look at Steve as he comes, and it sets off a chain reaction, the bolt of lust making her squeeze around Bucky’s cock, which hits just the right spot inside of her, sending Steve reeling back as her body starts to spasm. Darcy’s not sure, mostly because she’s not certain she’s still on this _planet_ , but from the way he’s breathing hard and grinding into her, Bucky’s coming too, both hands back on her hips to slam her onto him as they both fall apart. Her arms give out but Steve’s come back to catch her, panting along with them as they all try to regain equilibrium.

Darcy knows it’s up to her to say something, that they’re waiting for her reaction. “I am never going to be able to move again,” she declares, wriggling closer to Steve with a dramatic sigh.

“We didn’t hurt you, did we?” Bucky asks, sarcastic but still tinged with concern.

She stretches with a happy hum. “Only in the good, I’m-sure-gonna-walk-funny-tomorrow way,” she assures them, before adding with her own dash of sarcasm, “Why, did I hurt you?”

“I dunno, I might have some nail marks on my legs,” Steve informs her gravely as Bucky scoots up to wrap himself around them both.

“Nail marks, hell, I’m pretty sure you sucked my brain out through my dick,” Bucky informs her. “Thought only Steve could do that.”

“I would like to see that. No really, I demand it, because you are both hot and the thought of you being hot together? Yes. Now. Well, soon, I still can’t move.”

“I think we can arrange that,” says Steve, smiling bright and happy. “So what time you gotta be in tomorrow again?”

“Well, the party’s at noon,” she says cautiously, “but like I said, I was gonna go home and crash and be fashionably late…”

“And deprive everyone of the life of the party?” Bucky snorts. “You’ll stay here and we’ll get you out the door. It’s a hell of a responsibility but Steve’s a stand-up guy and he’ll do his best, won’t you, Cap?”

“You mean I gotta corral both of you?” Steve groans, making Darcy giggle.

“A long as I can borrow a set of pajamas… or you manage to keep me warm. By the way, I hope you guys like lots of blankets and pillows.”

* * * * *

The next day, at the small party for the Avengers, she finally finds out what’s inside the identical boxes: delicate earrings crafted out of a vibranium alloy and set with amber, one in each, from her “two old fossils.”

But as it turns out, in her pile of presents there’s also an unmarked bag. This one contains a few odds and ends, last-minute stuff, really; there’s a model airplane kit made out of balsa wood, a green Silly Putty egg, a rainbow Slinky, a bottle of bubbles, and, last but not least, a booklet of “Pin-Up Girls of World War II” paper dolls.

Everyone else is confused when she tosses aside the earring boxes to hold that bag close for the rest of the day, but oddly enough, Bucky and Steve don’t seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Top Ten list I referenced can be found here: http://voices.yahoo.com/top-ten-toys-yesterday-1940s-677860.html
> 
> According to Google, one can indeed acquire paper dolls of the mentioned varieties, and quite a few more besides. Market variety is a beautiful thing.


	6. wrath (come and let it all out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy/Logan, implied Darcy/Coulson UST, for "bets" and "biting". Slightly AU, with Darcy as Coulson’s assistant in the space between his “death” and the formation of his team, and Wolverine traipsing about in the bars and wilds of Canada as is his wont.
> 
> Trigger warnings for alcohol consumption, leading into sex in line with the “biting” trope (but not in a way that’s going to send anyone to the hospital!), and foulmouthedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "White Knuckles" by OKGo.

It’s a good disguise, he’ll give the girl that; the flannel shirt knotted at her waist, tight faded blue jeans and dusty cowboy boots look like she wears them every day. But there ain’t no way a fresh-faced gal like that came in here for the pint of beer at her elbow.

Not when she smells like she does, and not while he’s in town. Though she’s damn lucky he is, what with all the assholes he’s already had to keep off her back. He ain’t sure if the man he smells on her is her boyfriend or her boss, but either way, Logan knows he wouldn’t be happy if she broke cover and S.H.I.E.L.D. had to clean up the mess.

Too bad her luck’s about to run out. Logan’s never been much for being hunted, even when it’s packaged so prettily.

His initial anger’s been tamped to a slow burn by now, and to keep it there he finishes off the rest of his whiskey in one swallow, signalling the barkeep for another as he wanders over to her table in the corner. She’s been staring down at her lap, the light of her phone reflecting against her face behind a half-demolished basket of fried fish and potatoes. It’s the best bar food for miles, but that ain’t saying much.

Logan sits down across from her. “So, how’s Phil?” he asks as pleasantly as he can, considering the circumstances.

She looks up at him, and Christ, the kid’s a flamin’ open book: shock, then suspicion, followed by dawning recognition as she starts to tap on her phone. A quick glance down then back up, and she gulps. “Oh wow,” she says, “this looks bad.”

“Truth,” he allows, pulling a cigar from his front shirt pocket. “Might wanna keep that up, kid.”

She’s still frowning at her phone, fingers flicking across the screen almost too fast for him to follow. “Seriously, this isn’t—it’s not—” He clears his throat and she jolts, looking up at him guiltily.

“You got a name, or do I just call you ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent’?”

He’s mildly surprised when she wrinkles her nose. “Not me, dude. I just keep them on-target, or so I’m told.” Wonder of wonders, she sets aside her phone, holding out a hand. “Darcy Lewis, I’m with S.A.S.S.”

Logan nearly chokes on the first puff of the cigar. “They sent an _admin_ after me?”

He didn’t take her hand, which is good, because now she’s holding them up in surrender. “Whoa now, lets back it up a bit, Muttonchops. I, uh, think we’ve got some communications issues on our hands—”

“You’re damn right we do,” he growls, but before he can _really_ work up a firestorm of mad, she throws a fried potato wedge at his head. It’s surprisingly effective.

“So _listen_ ,” she commands. “Bad as this looks, I didn’t come here for you. They sent Phil—Agent Coulson—up here to investigate some weird stuff, and sent me along to sort data and make sure he doesn’t overdo it. I’m just the secretary.”

The thing is, she doesn’t smell like deceit; just hotel soap, some patchouli oil, and of course, Phil Coulson. But Logan’s got plenty of enemies, and even if he and S.H.I.E.L.D. are somewhere between there and friendly, he wouldn’t put it past ‘em to use someone else’s way to fool his senses. “All right, then, tell me why you’re here,” he says, motioning toward her phone. “I’ll take the short version, if y’don’t mind.”

Darcy gets a few more points in his book when she does just that, explaining repeated sightings of weird cyclones, and bursts of light, and one guy who swore he saw two people flying through the air in tandem. “I’m kinda chalking that one up to outside circumstance, though,” she says, pointing toward his glass of whiskey and miming someone chugging from a bottle. The story tugs at something in Logan’s memory, but he lets it fall by the wayside; it’s much more important to look for signs of lying in Darcy’s bright blue eyes, the way she forms her words.

“Sounds legit,” he allows when she finishes, “but what makes you think that Coulson didn’t plan for you to run into me so he could get a report without breakin’ _that_?” He motions toward her phone, which is now pulled up to a file on him. Even from here he can see the bright red “DO NOT CONTACT” written across it.

“He wouldn’t,” she says.

“How much you wanna bet?”

Logan may not be one of the smart guys, but when it comes to anger he’s a fuckin’ genius. From the looks of things, Darcy’s officially got herself a good one going, all flushed cheeks and sparking eyes, though she stops just short of throwing her phone against the wall. “That _asshole_ ,” she hisses.

She stands up, and Logan’s pretty sure she’s coming back, since her coat’s still on the chair and she left the phone behind. Just in case, though, he keeps an eye on her, watching the way she points behind the bar, then at Logan himself, before slamming a handful of cash upon the battered old wood. By the time she turns around she’s got a liquor bottle in each hand, along with a small bag of limes she somehow managed to wheedle from the barkeep.

She leaves his phone number on the bar, much to the man’s disappointment.

“Step one of fucking over S.H.I.E.L.D: using company funds to pay way too much for bad booze,” she says, setting the bottle of whiskey in front of him. “I’d wager you can help me figure out step two.”

“Darlin’,” he says, giving her a big grin, “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * * * *

She’s just taken a swig of her tequila when he asks, and she chokes a bit but still manages to swallow it down, sinking her teeth into the lime wedge to finish off the shot. The cold’s brought color to her cheeks and lips, making them even more red and lush around the slice of green.

And if Logan’s feelin’ that poetic, it might be time to put the sauce away.

“Nope,” she says, tossing the lime at the nearest pine cone. She actually manages to hit it, and so according to the terms of their agreement he has to take at least one more shot. Christ, did she letter in baseball or somethin’? “We are in the same hotel room, but separate beds, no hanky panky.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “I’m guessing you can smell him?”

“Little bit,” he allows, gulping the whiskey down.

“Not that I wouldn’t,” she admits, picking up her next lime wedge and studying its color in the dim light cast by his headlights. After a few too many dirty looks from the bartender they’d decided to go out to his truck at the edge of the parking lot, which is of course ringed with trees because they’re in fuckin’ Canada. Judging from the way Darcy’s breath puffs white, they’ll have to climb in the cab soon, but she wanted to throw things and who was he to tell a lady no?

Logan chuckles as he lazily lobs a snowball at his target, a distant tree branch. He misses, but that’s to be expected; she might do her damndest to keep up but there ain’t no way Darcy can outdrink him, and he doesn’t really want to let her try.

Also, it’s kinda fun to watch her little victory dance, the swing of her hips as she laughs and shoots him with finger guns before blowing imaginary smoke from them with pursed lips.

Hey, he’s fucked up and old, but he ain’t dead.

“Phil’s your type, huh?” He arches an eyebrow at her. “Ain’t he a little, uh—”

“I like older guys,” she shrugs. “And competence. It’s pretty appealing when someone has their shit together, since I’m pretty sure I never will.”

“Fair enough,” he says, thinking briefly of Jean and her capable hands, her steady demeanor (okay, and a little bit about her rack). “But Agent ain’t bitin’?”

“Agent is not biting, licking, sucking, or any variation thereof,” she admits gloomily, dropping the lime wedge back onto the rapidly-shrinking pile. “And it’s _bullshit_ , Logan, like, I have come out of the bathroom every morning in my underwear and he just—” She waves her hands around.

“Doesn’t look?” Logan snorts. “Darlin’, you sure he didn’t actually die?”

“He looks, but he doesn’t see me,” she says, repeating in a soft whisper, “he doesn’t see me at all.” She looks up at him, teasing smile at odds with her reddened eyes. “You sayin’ you’d look?”

“Honey, if you walked into my bedroom in just a bra and panties, I’d do a hell of a lot more than look.”

“Yeah, right,” she snorts, looking away. “No way you’d—”

“How much you wanna bet?” he repeats, and while Logan didn’t exactly plan on getting to this point he ain’t gonna say he didn’t think of the possibility from the first moment she sucked down a tequila shot, biting into a lime wedge with the sort of enthusiasm not many women can fake. Darcy may be young and inexperienced, and he barely knows her at all, but he can already tell she’s genuine about her mad and her happy alike.

That’s more than enough for him to run with.

“Prove it,” she demands, and he pulls her close so he can press his lips to hers, licking away the salt and lime so he can taste her underneath, tart and sweet with a hint of beeswax lip balm. Darcy doesn’t have that chemical smell or taste that so many women have these days; he’s thinking she’s probably a bit of a hippie, once you get past all the electronic doodads.

She’s also one hell of a kisser, enthusiastic and a little bit messy from the booze, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth to give it a sharp bite. He jolts against her and feels her grin, hips sliding against his to seek him out beneath their layers. “It’s fucking freezing out here,” she informs him when they break apart, her breath coming fast.

“Wanna get in the truck?”

“Darlin’,” she says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

It’s a beat-up truck, well-used and well-loved by plenty of other owners, but the cab’s got some space and there’s a blanket draped across the seats. He’d started it up about ten minutes ago when Darcy demanded more light, and is glad he did; the bucket of bolts is almost warm by now. He moved to open her door first but to his surprise she shoves him inside, despite the total futility of the gesture unless _he_ wants to move. Luckily for her, he does.

“I’m not letting that dig into my ass,” she informs him, jerking her chin toward the steering wheel with its battered, peeling leather cover. “The only way that thing’s still on there is by sheer force of habit.”

“Fair enough,” he allows, as she climbs onto his lap and pulls the door shut with a slam that sends snow sliding from the roof onto the windshield. It had come down for a bit while they were inside but it’s been clear out for a while, though it would’ve been nice to see Darcy with snowflakes in her hair.

He wraps his arms around her waist and they start to make out, nips and nibbles soothed by hot, gliding skin and murmurs of appreciation. Darcy’s got him straddled, grinding against him, and the girl definitely knows how to move her hips. While he’s thinking that removing all her clothes might lead to frostbite—though damn, he’s willing to bet it’s a sight to behold—they pull off her coat and gloves, and he opens her flannel so it’s loose enough for him to slide his hands beneath her thermal shirt.

Her tits are round and soft in his hands, the lace of her bra scratching against his palms, and briefly he wonders if she wore it with her Agent in mind. Then her hands are busy on him, sliding between his buttons and zippers to scratch long and languid down his chest, and Logan bucks up against her. “Jesus, girl, you some sort of wildcat?” he asks her.

“Cougar-in-training,” she retorts, leaning down to give him a warning bite. The marks she leaves are fading almost as soon as she makes them, but her lips are swollen from his kisses and he’s pretty sure she’ll have some interesting bruises come the morning. He might feel bad, if she wasn’t giving back what he gave her with twice as much force. “You’re one to talk, _Wolverine_.”

Just for that, he gives her nipples a quick twist, and she shudders against him, mouth going slack on his neck. “‘M one to know, darlin,” he corrects, brushing them with his thumbs.

“That all you got?”

“That depends.” He moves his fingers down to the button of her jeans. “We takin’ these off your way, or mine?”

Darcy bites her lip. “Mine,” she decides, “but only because I’ve got to get home in these.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want Agent to notice,” he says, and her eyes narrow, sparking with irritation.

“I’ll be pissed if you don’t get this fucking undershirt off me, though,” she informs him, and braces her arms against the roof of the truck.

She jumps a bit when the sound of a claw popping echoes through the cab, and she’s as wary as any sane person would be with 12 inches of adamantium in her face, but he can also see how she’s tracking the glint of the pilot light against the metal’s edge. The thermal weave doesn’t stand a chance, parting like air with the barest pressure from his arm as he slices it open.

She looks surprised when he pops the claw back in, but he taps the center of her bra, where an extra bit of lace nestles between her tits. “Too pretty to fuck up,” he tells her, and she grins, pumping a fist in victory.

“Finally, some freaking appreciation!”

Of course, she returns the favor by shoving him aside and almost kneeing him in the balls as she struggles to pull off her jeans and long johns in one go, though he’s pretty impressed that she remembered to take off the cowboy boots first. She’s shivering a bit, but Darcy’s all legs and curves in front of him and Logan’s willing to keep her warm for a while.

“Got condoms in the glove box if ya want,” he offers.

“‘M clean and on the pill,” she counter-offers, and what do you know, someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. who gives more than they take. Obviously he should be hangin’ out more with the admins. “Well, duh,” she laughs when he tells her so, and starts climbing back onto his lap. “We get shit done _and_ know how to party.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he groans as she attacks the fly of his jeans, wiggling the denim down his hips just enough to free his cock and balls. Darcy aims him up and slides the wet seam of her cunt along him, bracing her hand on his chest as she rubs the head of his cock against her clit. Mesmerized by the sight of her tits, hovering behind the fluttering edges of her shirts, it takes him a moment to catch on, but when he bucks against her Darcy cries out, shivering as he nudges inside of her.

Between the two of them they work her onto his cock, ending with their foreheads together as her cunt presses against his balls. She bites her lip and grins, he gives her a smirk, and her phone starts to ring on the seat beside them where it fell out of her coat pocket. “Really?” she sighs, scooping up the phone; it’s gotta be Phil, and Logan’s willing to bet that for all the man is apparently blind, deaf, and dumb, if his assistant doesn’t pick up her phone then he’ll come find her with cavalry in tow.

He starts to move away, but to his surprise Darcy locks her thighs around his, holding him in place. When he arches an eyebrow at her, the smile she gives him in return is pure mischief, an unspoken dare. God but he likes the way this girl thinks, Logan decides as she clumsily presses the green button on the phone’s surface. “Sup, boss-man?” she chirps, readjusting her hips on Logan’s so he slides in just a tiny bit deeper. He doesn’t need her finger on his lips to keep him quiet but he gives it a kiss anyway, before nipping at it with his front teeth.

“Yeah, I’m at the bar,” she tells Phil, voice just a bit shaky. Logan’s pretty sure he can do better than that. “Yeah, I—no! No, don’t come by,” she yelps as he runs his hands along her thighs before cupping her ass, squeezing it before he undulates his hips against hers. Her world-class curves are almost as hot as the way she moves, wet and tight, in perfect counterpoint to the bite of her nails into his chest. “You’re tired, and it’s boring, just a bunch of… red… necks…”

He leans up to nibble at her neck, and while Darcy tries to hold her phone away he’s pretty sure Coulson hears her high-pitched whine as her clit rubs against his belly. _You bastard_ , she mouths to him, before slapping the phone back to her cheek. “Agent, gotta bounce,” she gasps before turning off the power and tossing the phone back to the seat. “God, I almost missed the trace window, we’ll be lucky if he isn’t here in ten minutes.”

“Think we can finish before then?” he smirks up at her, nudging against her clit, giving her the friction she so obviously wants. Like he said, open book, all the way.

“I dunno, what’ll I get if I win?” she asks.

He’s pretty sure he already knows, if the way she starts riding him in earnest is any indication. Where some women like to keep it consistent, Darcy’s in a constant state of chaos, swiveling her hips one way and then the next, seeming to enjoy the shift in sensation more than she tries to find any one way that’ll get her where she wants to go. _Jesus, she’d probably give a regular guy a heart attack_ , Logan thinks as he goads her on, holding her close as he does his damndest to make her fall apart.

She comes with a shout, slamming her hand against the roof of the truck as her rippling muscles hold him tight below, and even if she’s managed to punch a hole in the old rig it’ll be worth it. Her gasps border on sobs for air as he takes what he wants, pinning her down onto him as he grinds up into her wet warmth. It’s a blessed relief when heat rushes up his spine, balls drawing tight as he shoots off inside of her, sinking his teeth into her collarbone with a low growl.

“Think we did it?” she gasps into his neck.

“Yeah, darlin’, pretty sure we just did it,” he replies, deadpan, and she bites him.

“Cute,” she says, smirking at the revolted look on his face before she reaches for her phone again. Logan might not remember much but he’s pretty damn sure nobody’s ever called the Wolverine _cute_. “Hey, neat, three minutes left.”

“Sure they ain’t already here?”

“Eh, I got rid of the base tracking device on the way in,” she says with a glib wave of her hand. “Besides, the roads are shit.”

“That they are.” He looks past her through the snow on the windshield, out into the night. The sky is clear, probably won’t cloud up again until morning. “C’mon, darlin’, time to get up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, rolling off of him with shaking legs. While Darcy cleans herself up and pulls her pants back on, Logan reaches behind the seat for the duffel bag of gear he always keeps on-hand.

“You running?” she asks quietly as he gives it a brief, efficient check for the essentials.

“I’m thinkin’ the next visit from S.H.I.E.L.D. ain’t gonna be so friendly. Best if I keep movin’ off the grid.”

“Yeah, I get that,” she says. “Just… don’t let ‘em keep you in the woods for too long, eh? This is already getting kinda ridic.” She runs her fingers through his facial hair, smirking, before she buttons up her flannel. “And stop picking up girls in bars, especially ones who drink bottom-shelf tequila, you know they’re crazy, right?”

“Sure thing,” he says, reaching over to give her a final kiss, and from the way she grins against his mouth he’s pretty sure she realizes just how full of shit he is. “Tell Phil he’s a fuckin’ asshole, wouldya? Fury, too.”

“You know, I just might,” she says. “It’s about time having job security worked in my favor.”

He laughs and, while she’s struggling with the inside-out mess of her coat, presses the truck keys into her hand. By the time she manages to get in any shape to follow he’s out of the cab and long gone, the woods closing in around him like an embrace.

And while he could be mad that S.H.I.E.L.D. just ran him out of town, he’s got a feeling at least one of their agents is gonna regret it a hell of a lot more than he does.


	7. envy (wishing to be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy/Sif, background Jane/Thor, implied future Darcy/Sif/Thor/Jane/pick your combination, for "sex pollen" and "voyeurism". 
> 
> Trigger warning for consent simply because it’s sex pollen, though this has much more of a fluffy feel than my initial plot bunny. (And much better pop culture references.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Sugar, We're Going Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Usually, Darcy will freely admit that she’s got jealousy issues when it comes to Jane’s life. Why wouldn’t she? Jane’s beautiful, brilliant, has a real job now, and is dating a guy who is both the hottest and nicest person that Darcy’s ever met. Sure, there’s been some freaky alien incidents on and around her, but those have all seemed to work out for her pretty well.

Right now, though? She’s kind of jealous of Jane _and_ Thor. Which is new.

“They continue to fornicate?” The Lady Sif (all caps), dressed in borrowed workout clothes that still look custom-made, sits back down on the couch beside Darcy, passing her a cup of coffee. The observation pod attached to Dr. Banner’s safe room is small but nicely fitted out with all the amenities: comfy couch, fancy coffee maker, a mini bar filled with snacks, a button to deploy Hulk-grade tranqs into the safe room’s vents. Darcy’s pretty sure Tony designed it with himself in mind. “I must own, I am impressed by the Lady Jane’s stamina. Is this a skill in which Midgard’s women receive training?”

Darcy chokes on her coffee, which is a shame, because despite the fact that Sif’s probably never worked a coffee maker before it’s still perfect and delicious. Asgardians, man. “Uh, nope,” Darcy says, wiping at her mouth before the dribbles of coffee can reach her blouse. “Well, I guess there are some who do, like, prostitutes and porn stars?”

“Porn stars?” Sif repeats, her brow furrowed. From behind the glass, Jane lets out a muffled moan, followed by Thor’s hoarse shout, and Darcy is pretty sure she’s in the special hell.

“People who get paid to have sex, but it’s not just a one-time deal, they get recorded and it gets, um, well, there’s the Interne—” Darcy halts, because there is not enough time in the _world_ to explain the Internet, and she’s pretty sure Tony’s threat of sending all of her stuff into space if she ever lets Thor anywhere near the Tower’s firewalls again holds true for any Asgardian. “There’s DVDs? For the TV,” she says when Sif continues to look beautifully, adorably confused. “They’re discs and you put them in a box—”

“Like the saga of the Women Who Design!” Sif says with excitement, her face clearing at last. “Thor has told me much of them, particularly the one known as Julia.”

“He would,” Darcy sniffs. “Julia’s cool and all, but Charlene’s where it’s at.”

“But he did not say that the Women Who Design are also—”

A hollow thump reverberates through the room, interrupting Sif, but after two hours of this Darcy knows the sound of ass hitting one-way glass better than she ever thought possible. Still, they’re technically here for observation, so she takes a look. Hey, it’s Thor’s this time, neat.

Really, really neat.

“Yeah. Wait, uh, no!” she yelps, hastily taking another swallow of coffee. When Jane leaps into Thor’s arms and he starts to lift her up and down, arms rhythmically pumping against the glass, she gives up and sets the mug aside. “Not every DVD is porn. It’s like, uh, not every saga is about fighting… frost… giants..?”

“I see,” says Sif, her eyes trained on the glass. She’s probably looking for pressure cracks or something important like that. Darcy immediately scolds herself for uncharitable thoughts. Sure, nothing’s happened, other than Jane and Thor making a lot of monkey love thanks to some nature-made Viagra from the rolling hills of Vanaheim. But if it had, and Darcy had been the only one watching like she’d originally planned, there’s no way she would’ve noticed because she’d be busy fucking herself _blind_.

So it’s good that Sif is here, looking austere and capable and smelling really really nice. Honest.

“Well,” Sif says, flicking a glance at the clock before tuning back in to Jane and Thor’s more-acrobatic-than-she-ever-suspected sex-fest, “the cycle should end shortly, and Jane will be able to get some rest.”

“Wait,” Darcy says, “cycle?”

“I explained all to the Man of Iron,” Sif says, frowning. “Were you not in range to hear?”

Technically, yes, but Darcy had been distracted at the time by the sight of her boss being tossed against the nearest wall to have her shirt ripped off. It had been a no-bra day, which had made Thor very happy. Darcy can’t blame him. Jane’s tits are perky and adorable, and apparently _really_ responsive to touch.

“Probably,” Darcy admits, “but I missed it. Short version?”

Sif’s mouth curls in amusement. “Freyja’s flowers are not meant to be a weapon,” she says, “or a punishment. Two hours of activity, one of rest, until one is sated.”

“Huh. So no calling a doctor after four hours?”

“Your pardon?”

“Earth—uh, Midgard reference,” Darcy says. “How long are we talkin’?”

“Thor appears to be well-pleased,” Sif shrugs, “and as his arrival in the field of flowers was both accidental and brief… perhaps six more hours?”

“Holy shit.”

“You did not know, and yet you agreed to stand watch regardless?”

“And let near-strangers watch Jane and Thor get it on?” Darcy snorts. “Yeah, right. Tony Stark might be a pretty kickass landlord so far, but he’s dating one of the most gorgeous women on the planet, he can get his jollies elsewhere.”

Thankfully, JARVIS was programmed to at least try and help Tony avoid poor life choices, so he’d been polite enough to look the other way when Darcy had rerouted the security feeds from both rooms.

He’d also assured her that linking them to the 100-hour Youtube video of Nyan Cat was a “most excellent choice.”

“You find the Lady Potts attractive?”

And now she’s sitting next to a freaking goddess, thinking about Pepper Potts, while Jane’s digging her short nails into Thor’s shoulders and Thor’s groaning into the side of her neck. Yep, super-special hell has been reached. “Well, yeah, she’s hot, and did you _see_ her on CSPAN last week? Okay, probably not, but trust me: she laid the smack down on the Speaker of the House.”

She expects Sif to ask her about CSPAN, or what Pepper has against speakers. Instead, Sif tilts her head and says consideringly, “She is most attractive, though my preference is for women with more curves.”

Which is new, and exciting, and Jane needs to hear this _right now_ except she’s a little busy. So it’s up to Darcy to investigate.

For science.

“You like..?”

“I am… non-discriminating,” Sif says, eyes dancing just slightly. “Your words imply that you are the same?”

“Non-discriminating, I like that,” Darcy replies. “But, uh, we kind of thought…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you and Thor have known each other for centuries, right? And his dad seems to think you’re pretty great.” After hearing the shit he’d said to Jane when she popped in for Asgardian ER treatment, Darcy had decided not to actually say his name if she could help it, because if gods can actually get power from worship like the Internet says then fuck that guy, she’s not buying in.

“Ah, well.” Sif looks down at the coffee cup cradled in her hands, gives it a half-smile. “I am loath to defy my king, and I love my prince. But Thor loves Jane dearly, and I…” When she looks up at Darcy, her grin is pure mischief. “I find that I enjoy a certain amount of independence. Though Thor naked is always a treat.”

“Oh.” Darcy gulps, and for all she knows Thor is _killing_ Jane in there, but she can’t look away from Sif as she leans over to set her cup next to Darcy’s. “So this is, uh, nothing new and exciting?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sif murmurs, dipping her head low to kiss Darcy.

For a moment Darcy absolutely freezes, because there is no way this is actually happening. An hour and a half of sexual frustration has snapped her brain at last, and she’s totally hallucinating the warm glide of Sif’s mouth on hers, the way her raven hair falls around them like a sweetly-scented curtain. Then Sif pulls back, biting her lip, looking flushed and unsure.

“My apolo—”

“Oh my God, shut _up_ ,” Darcy groans, yanking Sif’s mouth back to hers.

Normally Darcy’s all about foreplay; she loves kissing, can do it for hours on end, and if her partner doesn’t then she’s more than happy to show them how it’s done. But it has been a day, full of hot guys she wants to climb like a tree being climbed like a tree right in front of her, and finding out that maybe her crazy boss just drives her crazy because she’d like to climb her too, and now there’s a Norse goddess in tight black yoga pants groaning around her tongue and that’s it, Darcy’s done waiting around. She reaches into Sif’s waistband, past her panties, finds her already dripping wet, and Darcy’s good but she’s not _that_ good.

“You mean I’ve been sitting here trying not to jam my hand up my skirt and you were getting off on them too?” she huffs, scandalized, when they both come up for air.

“Well,” Sif says, bucking forward against Darcy’s fingers. “I didn’t want to be rude. I am unfamiliar with Midgardian customs, and I was told by Heimdall that—”

“Whoever that is, he sucks,” Darcy says firmly, starting a circular rub against Sif’s clit. She gasps and falls forward a bit, bracing herself against the couch.

“I’ll let him know that,” she says in strangled tones, and reaches down to add her fingers to the mix.

They barely manage to get Sif’s pants down past her hips before she comes, shuddering and gasping, rocking her clit on the base of her palm while Darcy curls two of her fingers inside of her. “More?” Darcy asks as Sif pants against her, shudders still wracking her frame.

She lifts her head, and while Darcy’s never been in a full-on battle, she’s seen Sif’s game face before, and this one looks pretty similar. “Your turn,” Sif purrs, and for once, Darcy’s not arguing.

As it turns out, the ability to yank down your lover’s leggings, pin her to the wall and hold her there while you bury your face in her cunt isn’t just limited to Thor. Darcy cries out, straining forward, but Sif’s got her well in hand, tracing the outline of her lips with the tip of her tongue before darting in, lightning-quick, to taste her.

“You have beautiful hips,” Sif murmurs, nipping at one of her hipbones and then her inner thigh before returning to her core. Letting out a whine, Darcy braces one hand on the wall and uses the other to shove her shirt and bra up so she can play with her nipples, plucking at them every time Sif swirls her tongue against her.

“What in the world are you— _oh_.” Sif’s gaze is upon her, watching as she weighs first one breast and then the other in her palm, shaping the nipple with her fingertips. Without looking away, she slowly and methodically sucks on Darcy’s clit, long pulls that make her moan. It’s too much, and Darcy has to slam her eyes shut, whimpering and rocking her hips against Sif.

Lightning-fast, Sif adjusts her grip so that she can press a thumb inside of Darcy, and that’s it, that’s just what she needs, Darcy is _gone_. Something is making the wall shake, and she’s not sure if it’s her or the other room, because of course it occurred to her that while Sif’s eating her out Thor might be doing the same to Jane less than five feet away, and God she wants to see that, wants to watch Jane fall apart.

Sif keeps up the pressure on Darcy’s clit until she lets out a high-pitched whine, pushing her away with great ineffectiveness. Except it works, and Sif lowers her slowly to the ground, no sign of strain whatsoever in her arms. “Beautiful,” she repeats, kissing Darcy, and the taste of herself on Sif’s lips is giving her _ideas_.

Ideas that might need to wait a few minutes for her to remember how to breathe, but they are very, very good ones.

“Darcy? Sif?”

Sif whirls around, and Darcy instinctively reaches to adjust her skirt (which just shows how hilariously different they are). But it’s only Jane, clad in a short robe, pressing her face against the glass.

“Shit, get the mike, hit the button,” Darcy hisses, and between the two of them they manage to get to the tiny panel of buttons that controls the safe room’s environment. “Jane? You okay?”

“Yeah, I—I’m good,” she says, blushing. All the way down. “Thor’s sleeping—an hour, right?”

“Yes,” Sif says, leaning in to speak. “Do you require any aid?”

“Funny you should say that,” Jane says after a pause. “I, um, well—”

“Chafing?” Darcy says in understanding tones.

“Yeah,” Jane sighs. “It’s been fun—well, you saw, oh God, how much did you see?—but he’s still ready to go, and I… I could use a coffee.”

“Sif made some and it is delicious,” Darcy announces, grinning as Sif looks back at her to give her a proud smile.

“Right. Um.” Jane bites her lip. “I don’t want to be weird, and this isn’t like I’m selling my boyfriend for caffeine, even though it feels like it, but… does anyone want to trade?”

Darcy and Sif exchange a glance. “What do you think?” Sif inquires.

“Uh…” Darcy presses down on the button again. “With full sympathy for your lady-parts, and all that… how’s the big guy gonna feel about it once he’s back to normal?”

Holy crap, Jane is red as a brick now. “We’ve talked about it,” she mutters, nervously twining her hair around her finger. “Before.”

All of a sudden Sif is looking _very_ interested. “Lady Jane, did he, by any chance, mention bilgesnipe hunts?”

“Yeah, actually, he did.” There’s dawning comprehension on Jane’s face, and more than a little bit of suspicion. “Wait a minute, did you two—”

“Jane, it’s cool,” Darcy interrupts. “Really, really cool. Promise.”

“If you say so.” Jane darts a glance back to Thor, looks at them with big eyes. “So can we make this happen?”

Without bothering to respond, Darcy grabs Sif’s wrist and yanks her outside to the hallway that leads down to the room’s access point. There are double-locking doors but she’s got the access key; getting Jane’s attention without being loud is another task, but they manage.

For all her obliviousness, though, Jane apparently just earned her honorary Ph.D. in sexy-times, because it only takes her one look at the two of them for her gaze to narrow, then widen. “No way,” she declares. “No _way_.”

“Way,” Darcy assures her with a grin, and tosses her the key. “Go have some coffee and a nap, hot stuff. We’ve got this.”

“Though we might need your help later on,” Sif adds, grinning as she wraps herself around Darcy’s arm.


End file.
